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SONGS OP THE SEA, 



OTHER POEMS. 



SONGS OF THE SEA, 



OTHER POEMS, 



EPES SARGENT. 



SECOND EDITION. 




Boston: 

WILLIAM D. TICKNOR & COMPANY, 

MDCCCXLIX. 






Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1847, by 

James Munboe and Company, 

in the Clerk's office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 



PREFACE. 



Several of the following poems, and among 
them the ballad of " Adelaide's Triumph." are 
now for the first time published. Others have 
appeared in different periodicals, with which the 
writer has been connected during the last ten 
years, and have met with a kind reception from 
the public. How far any of them may be 
deemed worthy of preservation, will be solved, 
probably, by the fate of this edition, which has 
been carefully revised, and contains the first 
and only complete and authorized collection of 
the writer's poetical pieces. 



CONTENTS. 



SONGS OF THE SEA. 

PAGE. 

The Light of the Lighthouse, 11 

Shells and Seaweeds,, 23 



I. The Departure. — II. The Awakening. — III. T 



<C 



Gale. — IV. Morning after the Gale. — V. To a 
Land-Bird. — VI. A Thought of the Past. — VII. 
Tropical Weather. — VIII. A Calm. — IX. A Wish. 

— X. Tropical Night. — XI. The Planet Jupiter. 

— XII. ToEgeria. — XIII. Cuba. — XIV. The Sea- 
Breeze at Matanzas. — XV. Midsummer Rains. — 
XVI. Weighing Anchor. 

The Missing Ship, ?, ( ) 

RoCKALL, 44 

The Hurricane's Ambuscade, 47 

A Life on the Ocean Wave, 50 

Midsummer in the City, 52 

Mo sic on the Waters, 55 

The Night-Storm at Sea, 57 

Summer Noon At Sea, 60 

Forget Me Not, 62 



C CONTENTS. 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

PAGE. 

Gonello, 67 

The Martyr of the Arena, 78 

woodhull, 83 

The Last of his Tribe, 86 

The Death of Warren, 89 

Ode for Washington's Birthday, 91 

The Days that are past, 93 

The Gay Deceiver, 95 

Florette, 97 

The Spring-Time will return, 99 

The Fountain in the City, 101 

The Captive, 102 

Fantasy and Fact, 104 

A Morning Invocation, 107 

The Fugitive from Love, 109 

When the Night-Wind bewaileth, Ill 

To a Singing Bird, 113 

The First Snow-Storm, 116 

Summer in the Heart, 119 

The Conqueror, 121 

Adelaide's Triumph, - 123 

The Drama's Race, 147 

Farewell Address, , „ 153 

DRAMATIC PIECES. 

The Candid Critic, 159 

The Lampoon, 195 

NOTES. 



SONGS OF THE SEA 



SONGS 



OF 



THE SEA 



THE LIGHT OF THE LIGHTHOUSE 



I. 

The closing of a day in June, 

Mild, beautiful, and bright ! 
The setting sun, the crescent moon, 

Mingling their doubtful light! 
The west wind brings the odor sweet 

Of flowers and new-mown hay ; 
While murmuring billows at our feet 

Breathe of the salt sea spray. 



12 THE LIGHT OF THE LIGHTHOUSE. 

II. 

We stroll along the wide sea-beach, 

A ladye faire and I, 
And con what Nature's page may teach 

In ocean, earth, and sky. 
And, as across the waters blue, 

With roving glance we gaze, 
A light springs suddenly to view — 

It is a beacon's blaze ! 

III. 

O, lambently the new-born flame 

Disparts the purple air ; 
In childlike wonder we exclaim, 

To see a sight so fair. 
"How bright," the ladye saith, "its ray 

Shoots o'er the tranquil tide ! 
Now lister, to the tale, I pray, 

With vonder shaft allied. 



THE LIGHT OF THE LIGHTHOUSE. 13 

IV. 

" Upon that island's narrow ledge 

Of rocks with sea-weed strown, 
Fringed by the thinly-scattered sedge, 

The lighthouse towers alone. 
There, 'mid the sea's perpetual swell, 

The dash of breakers wild, 
Two solitary beings dwell — 

A father and his child I 

V. 

" Three years ago, no friendly light 

Across the dark reef beamed ; 
A white flag on the rocky height, 

The only signal, streamed. 
Poor Francis Lome had then a wife, 

And he had children five; 
He led a fisherman's bold life, 

And merrily did he thrive. 



14 THE LIGHT OF THE LIGHTHOUSE. 

VI. 

" It was on Independence Day, 

To Mary Lome he said, 
1 My sloop is rocking in the bay, 

Our flag at her mast-head. 
Come, gentle wife, your work throw down, 

And, children, come with me ; 
And we'll all take a trip to town, 

This day's great sights to see. 

VII. 

4 "On board! on board! Fair blows the gale 

My boat is swift and strong; 
With streamers gay and loosened sail, 

How will she sweep along ! 
The sky is clerir and beautiful, 

Bright gleams the breezy morn ; 
We'll skim the blue waves like a gull ! 

We will ! ' said Francis Lome. 



THE LIGHT OF THE LIGHTHOUSE. 15 

VIII. 

" 0> joyful heart, exult not so ! 

Mistrust that prospect fair; 
It is the lure of death and woe, 

The ambush of despair ! 
That night the storm, in wild array, 

Clove through the billows dark, 
And, in a cloud of foam and spray, 

Rushed on the fated bark. 

IX. 

" The morning's dim, unconscious smile, 

That hushed the raging blast, 
Disclosed upon that rock-bound isle 

Two forms the surge had cast. 
There, folded to the father's breast, 

His youngest daughter lay ; 
They are but two — where be the rest? 

Ye ruthless billows, say! 



16 THE LIGHT OF THE LIGHTHOUSE. 



"Alas for him! From death-like sleep, 

When memory was recalled, 
He could not groan — he could not weep 

His reason was appalled! 
A grief, that blanched his sun-burnt face, 

Thenceforth upon him grew — 
A grief that time could not erase, 

And hope could not subdue. 

XI. 

" And when, at length, on yonder spot, 

Was reared the lighthouse spire, 
To him was given the lonely lot 

To tend the beacon fire. 
There, from the busy world apart, 

Its clamor and its care, 
He lives, with but one human heart 

His solitude to share. 



THE LIGHT OF THE LIGHTHOUSE. 17 

XII. 

'- But O, Aurora's crimson light, 

That makes the watch-fire dim, 
Is not a more transporting sight 

Than Ellen is to him! 
He pineth not for fields and brooks, 

Wild-flowers and singing birds, 
For Summer smileth in her looks, 

And singeth in her words. 

XIII. 

" A fairy thing, not five years old, 

So full of joy and grace, 
It is a rapture to behold 

The beauty of her face ! 
And O, to hear her happy voice, 

Her laughter ringing free, 
Would make the gloomiest heart rejoice, 

And turn despair to glee! 
2 



18 THE LIGHT OF THE LIGHTHOUSE. 

XIV. 

" The ocean's blue is in her eyes, 

Its coral in her lips; 
And, in her cheek, the mingled dyes, 

No sea-shell could eclipse! 
And, as she climbs the weedy rocks, 

And in the sunshine plays, 
The wind that lifts her golden locks 

Seems more to love their rays. 

XV. 

"When the smoothed ocean sleeps unstirred, 

And, like a silver band, 
The molten waters circling gird 

The island's rim of sand, 
She runs her tiny feet to lave, 

And breaks the liquid chain; 
Then laughs to feel the shivered wave 

Coil down to rest again. 



THE LIGHT OF THE LIGHTHOUSE. 19 

XVI. 

"And, when the black squall rends the deep, 

The tempest-cradled maid, 
To see the white gulls o'er her sweep, 

Mounts to the balustrade : 
Above her head and round about, 

They stoop without alarm, 
And seem to flout her threatening shout, 

And her up-stretching arm. 

XVII. 

" Once, Francis sought the neighboring town, 

And she was left alone; 
When such a furious storm came down 

As never had been known. 
' My child ! ' the wretched parent cried ; 

' O friends, withhold me not ! 
The bravest man, in such a tide, 

Would quail on that bleak spot.' 



20 THE LIGHT OF THE LIGHTHOUSE. 

XVIII. 

" He strove, till faint and out of breath, 

His fragile boat to gain; 
But all knew it was certain death 

To tempt the hurricane: 
And wilder grew the tempest's power, 

And doubly black the night, 
When, lo! at the appointed hour, 

Blazed forth that beacon-light! 

XIX. 

"The sea-fog, like a fallen cloud, 

Rolled in and dimmed its fire; 
Roared the gale louder and more loud, 

And sprang the billows higher! 
Above the gale that wailed and rang, — 

Above the booming swell, 
With steady and sonorous clang, 

Pealed forth the lighthouse bell! 



THE LIGHT OF THE LIGHTHOUSE. 21 

XX. 

"Warned by the sound, ships inward bound 

Again the offing tried; 
And soon the baffled Tempest found 

His anger was defied: 
The billows fell, the winds, rebuked, 

Crept to their caverns back; 
And placidly the day-star looked 

Out from the cloudy rack. 

XXI. 

"Bright through the window-panes it smiled 

Upon the little bed, 
Where, wrapped in slumber deep and mild, 

Ellen reposed her head. 
Her friends, her father seek the place; 

Good saints have watched her charms ! 
Her blue eyes open on his face, 

And she is in his arms ! " 



22 THE LIGHT OF THE LIGHTHOUSE. 



XXII. 

The voice was mute, the tale was told ; 

Sacred be my reply ! 
Along the wide sea-beach we strolled, 

That ladye faire and I. 
Blessed, ever blessed and unforgot, 

Be that sweet summer night! 
And blessings on that wave-girt spot, 

The lighthouse and the light ! 



SHELLS AND SEAWEEDS. 

RECORDS OF A SUMMER VOYAGE TO CUBA 



THE DEPARTURE. 
Again thy winds are pealing in mine ear ; 

Again thy waves are flashing in my sight ; 
Thy memory-haunting tones again I hear, 

As through the spray our vessel wings her flight. 
On thy cerulean breast, now swelling high, 

Again, thou broad Atlantic, am I cast. 
Six years, with gathering speed, have glided by, 

Since, an adventurous boy, I hailed thee last. 
The sea-birds o'er me wheel, as if to greet 

An old companion; on my naked brow 
The sparkling foam-drops not unkindly beat; 

Flows thro' my hair the freshening breeze : and now 
The horizon's ring enclasps me; and I stand 
Gazing where fades from view, cloud-like, my father- 
land. 



24 SHELLS AND SEAWEEDS. 



II. 



THE AWAKENING. 

How changed the scene ! Our parting gaze, last night, 

Was on the three-hilled city's swelling dome, — 
The dome o'erlooking from its stately height 

Full many a sacred spire and happy home. 
Rose over all, clouding the azure air, 

A canopy of smoke, swart Labor's sign; 
While like a forest Winter has stripped bare, 

Bristled the masts along the water's line. 
But now the unbroken ocean and the sky 

Seem to enclose us in a crystal sphere ; 
A new creation fills the straining eye; 

No bark save ours — no human trace is here! 
But, in the brightening east, a crimson haze 
Floats up before the sun, his incense fresh of praise. 



A SUMMER VOYAGE TO CUBA 25 



III 



THE GALE. 

The night came robed in terror. Through the air 

Mountains of clouds, with lurid summits, rolled, — 
The lightning kindling with its vivid glare 

Their outlines, as they rose heaped fold on fold. 
The wind, in fitful soughs, swept o'er the sea; 

And then a sudden lull, serene as sleep, 
Soft as an infant's breathing, seemed to be 

Cast, like enchantment, on the throbbing deep. 
But false the calm ! for soon the strengthened gale 

Burst in one loud explosion, far and wide, 
Drowning the thunder's voice ! With every sail 

Close-reefed, our groaning ship heeled on her side ; 
The torn waves combed the deck ; while, o'er the mast, 
The meteors of the storm a ghastly radiance cast. 



26 SHELLS AND SEAWEEDS. 



IV. 



MORNING AFTER THE GALE. 

Bravely our trim ship rode the tempest through; 

And when the exhausted gale had ceased to rave, 
How broke the day-star on the gazer's view ! 

How flushed the orient every crested wave ! 
The sun threw down his shield of golden light 

In proud defiance on the ocean's bed ; 
Whereat the clouds betook themselves to flight, 

Like routed hosts, with banners soiled and red. 
The sky was soon all brilliance, east and west; 

All traces of the gale had passed away ; 
The chiming billows, by the breeze caressed, 

Shook lightly from their heads the feathery spray. 
Ah! thus may Hope's auspicious star relume 
The sorrow-clouded soul, and end its hour of gloom ! 



A SUMMER VOYAGE TO CUBA. 27 



V. 



TO A LAND BIRD. 

Thou wanderer from green fields and leafy nooks ! 

Where blooms the flower and toils the honey-bee, — 
Where odorous blossoms drift along the brooks, 

And woods and hills are very fair to see, — 
Why hast thou left thy native bough to roam, 

With drooping wing, far o'er the briny billow ? 
Thou canst not, like the ospray, cleave the foam, 

Nor like the petrel make the wave thy pillow. 
Thou'rt like those fine-toned spirits, gentle bird, 

Which from some better land to this rude life 
Seem borne. They struggle, 'mid the common herd, 

With powers unfitted for the selfish strife : 
Haply, at length, some zephyr wafts them back 
To their own home of peace, across the world's dull 
track. 



28 SHELLS AND SEAWEEDS. 



VI. 



A THOUGHT OF THE PAST. 

I waked from slumber at the dead of night, 

Moved by a dream too heavenly fair to last — 
A dream of boyhood's season of delight ; 

It flashed along the dim shapes of the past ; 
And, as I mused upon its strange appeal, 

Thrilling me with emotions undefined, 
Old memories, bursting from Time's icy seal, 

Rushed, like sun-stricken fountains, on my mind. 
Scenes where my lot was cast in life's young day ; 

My favorite haunts, the shores, the ancient woods, 
Where, with my schoolmates, I was wont to stray; 

Green, sloping lawns, majestic solitudes — 
All rose to view, more beautiful than then ; — 
They faded, and I wept — a child indeed again ! 



A SUMMER VOYAGE TO CUBA. 29 



VII. 

TROPICAL WEATHER. 

Now we're afloat upon the tropic sea: 

Here Summer holdeth a perpetual reign. 
How flash the waters in their bounding glee ! 

The sky's soft purple is without a stain. 
Full in our wake the smooth, warm trade-winds, 
blowing, 

To their unvarying goal still faithful run; 
And, as we steer, with sails before them flowing, 

Nearer the zenith daily climbs the sun. 
The startled flying-fish around us skim, 

Glossed like the humming-bird, with rainbow dyes ; 
And, as they dip into the water's brim, 

Swift in pursuit the preying dolphin hies. 
All, all is fair; and gazing round, we feel 
Over the yielding sense the torrid languor steal. 



30 SHELLS A3D SEAWEEDS. 



VIII. 

A CALM. 

O for one draught of cooling northern air ! 

That it might pour its freshness on me now; 
That it might kiss my cheek and cleave my hair, 

And part its currents round my fevered brow! 
Ocean, and sky, and earth — a blistering calm 

Spread over all ! How weary wears the day ! 
O, lift the wave, and bend the distant palm, 

Breeze ! wheresoe'er thy lagging pinions stay ! 
Triumphant burst upon the level deep, 

Rock the fixed hull and stretch the clinging sail ! 
Arouse the opal clouds that o'er us sleep ! 

Sound thy shrill whistle ! we will bid thee hail ! 
Though wrapped in all the storm-clouds of the North, 
Yet, from thy home of ice, come forth, O breeze, 
come forth! 



A SUMMER VOYAGE TO CUBA. 31 



IX. 



A WISH. 

That I were in some forest's green retreat ! 

Beneath a towering arch of proud old elms ; 
Where a clear streamlet gurgled at my feet — 

Its wavelets glittering in their tiny helms ! 
Thick clustering vines in many a rich festoon 

From the high, rustling branches should depend ; 
Weaving a net, through which the sultry Noon 

Might stoop in vain its fiery beams to send. 
There, prostrate on some rock's gray sloping side, 

Upon whose tinted moss the dew yet lay, 
Would I catch glimpses of the clouds that ride, 

Athwart the sky — and dream the hours away; 
While through the alleys of the sunless wood 
The fanning breeze might steal, with wild-flowers' 
breath imbued. 



32 SHELLS AND SEAWEEDS. 



TROPICAL NIGHT. 

But O! the night — the cool, luxurious night, 

Which closes round us when the day grows dim, 
And the sun sinks from his meridian height 

Behind the ocean's occidental rim ! 
Clouds in thin streaks of purple, green and red, 

Lattice his dying glory, and absorb — 
Hung o'er his couch — the rallying lustre shed, 

Like love's last tender glances, from his orb. 
And now the moon, her lids unclosing, deigns 

To smile serenely on the charmed sea, 
That shines as if inlaid with lightning-chains, 

From which it faintly struggled to be free. 
Swan-like, with motion unperceived, we glide, 
Touched by the downy breeze, and favored by the tide. 



A SUMMER VOYAGE TO CUBA. 



XI 



THE PLANET JUPITER. 



Ever at night have I looked up for thee, 

O'er thy sidereal sisterhood supreme ! 
Ever at night have scanned the purple sea 

For the reflection of thy quivering beam ! 
When the white cloud thy diamond radiance screened, 

And the Bahama breeze began to wail, 
How on the plunging bows for hours I've leaned, 

And watched the gradual lifting of thy veil ! 
Bright planet! lustrous effluence! thou ray 

From the Eternal Source of life and light ! 
Gleam on the track where Truth shall lead the way, 

And gild the inward as the outward night! 
Shine but as now upon my dying eyes, 
And Hope, from earth to thee, from thee to Heaven, 
shall rise ! 
3 



34 SHELLS AND SEAWEEDS. 

XII. 

TO EGERIA. 

The flying wave reflects thy angel face, 

But soon the liquid mirror breaks in foam; 
The severing cloud reveals thy form of grace, 

And then thou'rt standing in thy fittest home; 
A drifted vapor hides thy maiden shape — 

Ocean and sky are all the gazer sees ; 
But, while he murmurs at thy swift escape, 

He starts to hear thy whisper in the breeze. 
Capricious phantom! why within my heart 

Create the void of beauty and of love ? 
A spirit tells me, coy one, who thou art, — 

Heard in the gale, or shadowed forth above — 
The bright prefigurement of her who waits, 
With snow-white veil and wreath, beside the Future' 

I 



A SUMMER VOYAGE TO CUBA. 35 



XIII. 



CUBA. 

What sounds arouse me from my slumbers light? 

" Land ho! all hands, ahoy!" — I'm on the deck 
'Tis early dawn : the day-star yet is bright ; 

A few white vapory bars the zenith fleck ; 
And lo ! along the horizon, bold and high, 

The purple hills of Cuba ! Hail, all hail ! 
Isle of undying verdure, with thy sky 

Of purest azure ! Welcome, odorous gale ! 
O, scene of life and joy ! thou art arrayed 

In hues of unimagined loveliness. 
Sing louder, brave old mariner ! and aid 

JVIy swelling heart its rapture to express; 
For, from enchanted memory, never more 
Shall fade this dawn sublime, this fair, resplendent 
shore. 



30 SHELLS AND SEAWEEDS. 



XIV. 

THE SEA-BREEZE AT MATANZAS. 

After a night of languor without rest, — 

Striving to sleep, yet wishing morn might come, 
By the pent, scorching atmosphere oppressed, 

Impatient of the vile mosquito's hum, — 
With what reviving freshness from the sea, 

Its airy plumage glittering with the spray, 
Comes the strong day-breeze, rushing joyously 

Into the bright arms of the encircling bay ! 
It tempers the keen ardor of the sun ; 

The drooping frame with life renewed it fills; 
It lashes the green waters as they run ; 

It sways the graceful palm-tree on the hills ; 
It breathes of ocean solitudes, and caves, 
Luminous, vast, and cool, far down beneath the waves. 



A SUMMER VOYAGE TO CUBA. 37 



XV. 



MIDSUMMER RAINS. 

The morning here, how beautiful and bright! 

Look forth, and not a cloud-flake may be seen ; 
But, ere the sun has reached his noonday height, 

Up from the horizon slides a vapory screen ; 
And now the firmament is all o'ercast : 

Peals the hoarse thunder with stupendous roar; 
The rain, a crushing torrent, lays the blast, 

Foams on the wave, and hides the adjoining shore. 
But, with a breath, it pauses; and a ray 

Cleaves the huge keystone of the arch of gloom ; 
The shower attenuates to a filmy spray, 

Bright rolls the sea again — the earth is bloom; 
And, while the sun pours down a fiercer blaze, 
The moisture reascends fast on his flaming rays. 



38 SHELLS AND SEAWEEDS. 



XVI. 



WEIGHING ANCHOR. 

Like sweetest music are those cries that tell 

Of weighing anchor ; — ay, we're homeward bound ! 
Ye orange groves and coffee walks, farewell ! 

Farewell, thou fire-scooped summit, forest-crowned ! 
Ah, bright thy shores and bountiful thy fruits, 

Cuba ! and heaped with green thy river-banks ; 
But here the noontide Pestilence recruits 

(Stern minister !) Death's ever-gathering ranks. 
And so, e'en while thy gales are breathing balm, 

And thy rich growth our soil reluctant mocks, 
O, give me back the cedar for the palm! 

The cedar on its brown hills, ribbed with rocks ! 
'Tis Freedom's emblem ; and on Freedom's shore 
It stands — though rough without, all fragrance at 
the core! 



39 



THE MISSING SHIP 



1841. 



God speed the noble President ! 

A gallant boat is she, 
As ever entered harbor, 

Or crossed a stormy sea. 
Like some majestic castle 

She towers upon the stream; 
The good ships moored beside her 

Like pigmy shallops seem. 

How will her mighty bulwarks 
The leaping surges brave ! 

How will her iron sinews 

Make way 'gainst wind and wave! 



40 THE MISSING SHIP. 

Farewell, thou stately vessel I 

Ye voyagers, farewell ! 
Securely on that deck shall ye 

The tempest's shock repel. 

The stately vessel left us, 

In all her bold array ; — 
A glorious sight, O landsmen, 

As she glided down our bay ! 
Her flags were waving joyfully, 

And from her ribs of oak, 
"Farewell!" to all the city 

Her guns in thunder spoke. 

Flee, on thy vapory pinions! 

Back, back to England flee; 
Where patient watchers by the strand 

Have waited long for thee; 
Where kindred hearts are beating 

To welcome home thy crew, 
And tearful eyes gaze constantly 

Across the waters blue! 



THE MISSING SHIP. 41 

Alas, ye watchers by the strand, 

Weeks, months have rolled away, 
But where, where is the President? 

And why is this delay 1 
Return, pale mourners, to your homes ! 

Ye gaze, and gaze in vain ; 
O, never shall that pennoned mast 

Salute your eyes again ! 

And now your hopes, like morning stars, 

Have one by one gone out; 
And stern Despair subdues at length 

The agony of doubt ; 
But still Affection lifts the torch 

By night along the shore, 
And lingers by the surf-beat rocks, 

To marvel, to deplore. 

In dreams, I see the fated ship 

Torn by the northern blast; 
About her tempest-riven track 

The white fog gathers fast; 



42 THE MISSING SHIP. 

When, lo! above the swathing mist, 

Their heads the icebergs lift, 
In lucent grandeur to the clouds — 

Vast continents adrift! 

One mingled shriek of awe goes up, 

At that stupendous sight : 
Now, helmsman, for a hundred lives, 

O, guide the helm aright! 
Vain prayer ! she strikes ! and, thundering down, 

The avalanches fall ! 
Crushed, whelmed, the stately vessel sinks — 

The cold sea covers all ! 

Anon, unresting Fancy holds 

A direr scene to view, — 
The burning ship, the fragile raft, 

The pale and dying crew. 
Ah me ! was such their maddening fate 

Upon the billowy brine? 
Give up, remorseless Ocean, 

A relic and a sign ! 



THE MISSING SHIP. 43 

No answer cometh from the deep, 

To tell the tale we dread; 
No messenger of weal or woe 

Returneth from the defad ; 
But Faith looks up through tears, and sees, 

From earthly haven driven, 
Those lost ones meet in fairer realms, 

Where storms reach not — in Heaven. 



44 



ROCKALL 



Rockall is a solid block of granite, growing, as it were, out 
of the sea, at a greater distance from the main land, 
probably, than any other island or rock of the same di- 
minutive size in the world. It is only seventy feet high, 
and not more than a hundred yards in circumference. It 
lies at a distance of no fewer than one hundred and eighty- 
four miles nearly due west of St. Kilda, the remotest 
part of the Hebrides, and is two hundred and sixty miles 
from the north of Ireland. 



Pale ocean rock! that, like a phantom shape, 
Or some mysterious spirit's tenement, 
Risest amid this weltering waste of waves, 
Lonely and desolate, thy spreading base 
Is planted in the sea's unmeasured depths, 
Where rolls the huge leviathan o'er sands 
Glistening with shipwrecked treasures. The strong 

wind 
Flings up thy sides a veil of feathery spray 



ROCKALL. 45 

With sunbeams interwoven, and the hues 
Which mingle in the rainbow. From thy top 
The sea-birds rise, and sweep with sidelong flight 
Downward upon their prey ; or, with poised wings, 
Skim to the horizon o'er the glittering deep. 

Our bark, careening to the welcome breeze, 
With white sails filled and streamers all afloat, 
Shakes from her dipping prow the foam, while we 
Gaze on thy outline mingling in the void, 
And draw our breath like men who see, amazed, 
Some mighty pageant passing. What had been 
Our fate last night, if, when the aspiring waves 
Were toppling o'er our mainmast, and the stars 
Were shrouded in black vapors, we had struck 
Full on thy sea-bound pinnacles, Rock all ! 

But now another prospect greets our sight, 
And hope elate is rising with our hearts : 
Intensely blue, the sky's resplendent arch 
Bends over all serenely ; not a cloud 
Mars its pure radiance; not a shadow dims 
The flashing billows. The refreshing air 
It is a luxury to feel and breathe; 



46 ROCKALL. 

The senses are made keener, and drink in 
The life, the joy, the beauty of the scene. 

Repeller of the wild and thundering surge ! 
For ages has the baffled tempest howled 
By thee with all its fury, and piled up 
The massive waters like a falling tower 
To dash thee down ; but there thou risest yet, 
As calm amid the roar of storms, the shock 
Of waves uptorn, and hurled against thy front, 
As when, on summer eves, the crimsoned main, 
In lingering undulations, girds thee round ! 

O, might I stand as steadfast and as free 
'Mid the fierce strife and tumult of the world, 
The crush of all the elements of woe, — 
Unshaken by their terrors, looking forth 
With placid eye on life's uncertain sea, 
Whether its waves were darkly swelling high 
Or dancing in the sunshine, — then might frown 
The clouds of fate around me ! Firm in faith, 
Pointing serenely to that better world, 
Where there is peace, would I abide the storm, 
Unmindful of its rage and of its end. 



47 



THE HURRICANE'S AMBUSCADE. 



Look upon those clouds that lie 
Pillowed on the light blue sky, 
So translucent and serene, 
That they hardly dim its sheen : 
Look upon the glittering deep, 
Which the fiery sunbeams steep, 
Scattering on its purple floor 
Amethysts and golden ore ! 

Yet the Spirit of the storm 
Masks his elemental form 
Under this celestial smile, 
Nature putteth on the while; 



48 the hurricane's ambuscade. 

And the day shall not be ended, 
Ere, with all his hosts attended, 
We shall see the Hurricane 
Ride upon this billowy plain. 

Heralds of his coming swift, 
O'er us blackest clouds shall drift; 
And each foaming wave below 
Seem a pall half-merged in snow; 
Then the loosened gale shall break, 
Scooping mountains for his wake, 
And, with island-shaking roar, 
Drive whole argosies ashore. 

But we'll put our ship in trim, 
And await this tempest grim, 
Trusting not those tints of rose, 
Lured not by this smooth repose : 
Then, if comes the ambushed gale, 
And his vassal waves prevail, 
Foundered, wrecked, or tempest-driven, 
Still we shall have nobly striven. 



THE HURRICANE'S AMBUSCADE. 49 

Ah! thou voyager, afloat 
On life's sea, in painted boat, 
Crystal skies above thee bend, 
On thee prosperous airs attend; 
But, when fortune seems securest, 
Then of stealthy change be surest; 
And, with spirit bold and steady, 
For the sudden storm be ready. 

From the earth those vapors mount, 
And its moisture is their fount; 
But above them, ever clear, 
Shines the starry hemisphere : 
This world's sorrows, this world's sighs, 
"Weave the clouds o'er life that rise ; 
But, eternally above, 
Gleams the perfect light of love. 
4 



50 



A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE, 



SET TO MUSIC BY HENRY RUSSELL. 



A life on the ocean wave, 

A home on the rolling deep; 
Where the scattered waters rave, 

And the winds their revels keep ! 
Like an eagle caged, I pine 

On this dull, unchanging shore : 
O ! give me the flashing brine, 

The spray and the tempest's roar ! 

Once more on the deck I stand, 
Of my own swift-gliding craft : 

Set sail ! farewell to the land ! 
The gale follows fair abaft. 



A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE. 51 

We shoot through the sparkling foam 

Like an ocean-bird set free ; — 
Like the ocean-bird, our home 

We'll find far out on the sea. 



The land is no longer in view, 

The clouds have begun to frown; 
But with a stout vessel and crew, 

We'll say, Let the storm come down ! 
And the song of our hearts shall be, 

While the winds and the waters rave, 
A home on the rolling sea ! 

A life on the ocean wave! 



52 



MIDSUMMER IN THE CITY 

O RUS, QUANDO TE ASPICIAM ? 



I. 

O, ye keen breezes from the salt Atlantic, 
Which to the beach, where memory loves to wander, 
On your strong pinions waft reviving coolness, 
Bend your course hither! 

II. 

For, in the surf ye scattered to the sunshine, 
Did we not sport together in my boyhood, 
Screaming for joy amid the flashing breakers, 
O rude companions? 



MIDSUMMER IN THE CITY. 53 

III. 

Then to the meadows beautiful and fragrant, 
Where the coy Spring beholds her earliest verdure 
Brighten with smiles that rugged, sea-side hamlet, 
How would we hasten ! 

IV. 

There under elm-trees affluent in foliage, 
High o'er whose summit hovered the sea-eagle, 
Through the hot, glaring noontide have we rested, 
After our gambols. 

V. 

Vainly the sailor called you from your slumber : 
Like a glazed pavement shone the level ocean; 
While, with their snow-white canvass idly drooping, 
Stood the tall vessels. 

VI. 

And, when at length, exulting ye awakened, 
Rushed to the beach, and ploughed the liquid acres, 
How have I chased you through the shivered billows, 
In my frail shallop ! 



54 MIDSUMMER IN THE CITY. 

VII. 

Playmates, old playmates, hear my invocation ! 
In the close town I waste this golden summer, 
Where piercing cries and sounds of wheels in motion 

Ceaselessly mingle. 

VIII. 

When shall I feel your breath upon my forehead? 
When shall I hear you in the elm-trees' branches? 
When shall we wrestle in the briny surges, 
Friends of my boyhood? 



55 



MUSIC ON THE WATERS. 



Hark ! while our ship is swinging 

Above the ocean caves, 
The twilight gale is bringing 

Soft music o'er the waves. 
Ah ! from what isle of pleasure 

Floats the harmonious sound? 
To that entrancing measure, 

A fairy troop might bound. 

Hush! now it faints, it lingers; 

Now with a peal sublime, 
Struck by the wind-god's fingers, 

It drowns the billowy chime. 



5Q MUSIC ON THE WATERS. 

The stars more brightly glisten; 

The waves beneath the moon 
Fall down, and seem to listen, 

Enchanted, to the tune. 

Now mounting, now subsiding, 

It swells, it sinks, it dies ; 
Now on the swift breeze gliding, 

Over the deep it flies. 
So sweet and so endearing 

The strain, that, ere 'tis done, 
Thought seems absorbed in hearing, 

All senses in the one. 



57 



THE NIGHT-STORM AT SEA. 



'Tis a dreary thing to be 

Tossing on the wide, wide sea, 

When the sun has set in clouds, 

And the wind sighs through the shrouds 

With a voice and with a tone 

Like a living creature's moan. 

Look, how wildly swells the surge 
Round the black horizon's verge ! 
See the giant billows rise, 
From the ocean to the skies, 
While the sea-bird wheels his flight 
O'er their streaming crests of white ! 



58 THE NIGHT-STORM AT SEA. 

List ! the wind is wakening fast ; 
All the sky is overcast ; 
Lurid vapors, hurrying, trail 
In the pathway of the gale, 
As it strikes us with a shock 
That might rend the deep-set rock. 

Falls the strained and shivered mast ! 
Spars are scattered by the blast; 
And the sails are split asunder, 
As a cloud is rent by thunder; 
And the struggling vessel shakes, 
As the wild sea o'er her breaks. 



Ah! what sudden light is this, 
Blazing o'er the dark abyss 1 
Lo! the full moon rears her form 
'Mid the cloud-rifts of the storm, 
And, athwart the troubled air, 
Shines, like hope upon despair ! 



THE NIGHT-STORM AT SEA. 59 

Every leaping billow gleams 
With the lustre of her beams, 
And lifts high its fiery plume 
Through the midnight's parting gloom, 
While its scattered flakes of gold 
O'er the sinking deck are rolled. 

Father, low on bended knee, 
Humbled, weak, we turn to thee; 
Spare us, 'mid the fearful fight 
Of the raging winds to-night ; 
Guide us o'er the threat'ning wave; 
Save us ; — thou alone canst save ! 



60 



A SUMMER NOON AT SEA 



A holy stillness, beautiful and deep, 

Reigns in the air and broods upon the ocean ; 
The worn-out winds are quieted to sleep, 

And not a wave is lifted into motion. 

The fleecy clouds hang on the soft blue sky, 
Into fantastic shapes of brilliance moulded, 

Pillowed on one another broad and high, 

With the sun's dazzling tresses interfolded. 

The sea-bird skims along the glassy tide, 

With sidelong flight and wing of glittering white- 
ness, 

Or floats upon the sea, outstretching wide 
A sheet of gold in the meridian brightness. 



A SUMMER NOON AT SEA. 61 

Our vessel lies, unstirred by wave or blast, 

As she were moored to her dark shadow seeming, 

Her pennon twined around the tapering mast, 

And her loose sails like marble drapery gleaming. 

How, at an hour like this, the unruffled mind 
Partakes the quiet that is shed around us ! 

As if the Power that chained the impatient wind 
With the same fetter of repose had bound us ! 



"FORGET ME NOT. 



" Forget me not 1 " Ah, words of useless warning 
To one whose heart is henceforth memory's shrine ! 

Sooner the skylark might forget the morning, 
Than I forget a look, a tone of thine. 

Sooner the sunflower might forget to waken 

When the first radiance lights the eastern hill, 

Than I, by daily thoughts of thee forsaken, 
Feel, as they kindle, no- expanding thrill. 

Oft, when at night the deck I'm pacing lonely, 
Or when I pause to watch some fulgent star, 

Will Contemplation be retracing only 

Thy form, and fly to greet thee though afar. 



" F0SGET ME NOT." 63 

When storms unleashed, with fearful clangor sweeping, 
Drive our strained bark along the hollowed sea, 

When to the clouds the foam-topped waves are leaping, 
Even then I'll not forget, beloved one, thee ! 



Thy image, in my sorrow-shaded hours, 

Will, like a sunburst on the waters, shine ; 

'Twill be as grateful as the breath of flowers 
From some green island wafted o'er the brine. 

And O, sweet lady, when, from home departed, 
I count the leagues between us with a sigh, — 

When, at the thought, perchance a tear has started, 
May I not dream in heart thou'rt sometimes nigh? 

Ay, thou wilt, sometimes, when the wine-cup passes, 
And friends are gathering round in festal glee, 

While bright eyes flash as flash the brimming glasses, 
Let silent Memory pledge one health to me. 



64 " FORGET ME NOT." 

Farewell ! My fatherland is disappearing 
Faster and faster from my baffled sight ; 

The winds rise wildly, and thick clouds are rearing 
Their ebon flags, that hasten on the night. 



Farewell ! The pilot leaves us ; seaward gliding, 
Our brave ship dashes through the foamy swell ; 

But Hope, forever faithful and abiding, 

Hears distant welcomes in this last farewell ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



GONELLO. 



'Twas in fair Florence, in the olden time, 

A wight, Gonello named, was born and bred; 

A famous jester, an unequalled mime, 

Sworn foe to dulness of the heart and head. 

Sunny his spirits as his own fair clime; 

Mirth was his raiment, and on mirth he fed : 

In truth, he was a most diverting fellow; 

No cross-grained iEsop, but — in short, Gonello. 

But Dulness holds it treason to be witty ; 

And, having ridiculed some dolt of rank, 
Gonello was condemned to leave the city, — 

A hard return for such a harmless prank. 



68 GONELLO. 

Neither his jokes nor tears could gain him pity, 

And all his friends were busy or looked blank, 
When he drew near to ask them for assistance, 
Telling him, by their shrugs, to keep his distance. 

He turned away in loneliness of heart, 
Bestowing many a bitter gibe on those 

Who, because Folly feared some random dart 
While Wit was foraging, had grown his foes. 

"Dear Florence," quoth he, "must I then depart? 
O Fun and Fortune, spare me further blows ! " 

Was it not Vandal cruelty to pester 

With banishment so capital a jester? 

Gonello shook the dust from off his shoes, 
And the ungrateful city jokeless left. 

One friend, please Fortune, he would never lose — 
A merry heart — that still remained uncleft. 

What should he do? what fit employment choose, — 
Of home, of patron, and of means bereft ? 

At length he recollected a report, 

A fool was wanted at Ferrara's court. 



GONELLO. 



69 



Thither he went to seek the situation, 

And urged his claims with such a comic face, 

That he was made, by formal installation, 

Prime fool and licensed jester to his grace; 

And, having settled down in this vocation, 
He put on motley as became his place; 

And thenceforth passed his precious time in joking, 

Punning and quizzing, revelling and smoking. 

His jests, unlike some jests that we might name, 
Had nothing in them of a mouldy savor; 

But fresh, and apt, and tipped with point they came, 
To put grim Melancholy out of favor ; 

To drive Imposture to his den of shame, 

To scourge Pretence, and make true Merit braver : 

So that you granted, after you had laughed, 

Though Wit had feathered, Truth had barbed the shaft. 

The marquis held him in esteem so great, 
That, spite of motley wear, the jester soon 

Became a dabster in affairs of state, 

Though frowned upon by many a pompous loon 



70 GONELLO. 

'Twas an odd combination of his fate — 

A politician, honest man, buffoon ! 
But he was frank — rare trait in an adviser ; 
And, though a fool, no senator was wiser. 

And so, on rapid wing, his days flew by. 

What though a league of dunces might oppose? 
From modest Worth he never drew the sigh, 

And never added to Affliction's woes. 
But, ah ! securest joy, mishap is nigh ; 

The storm condenses while the noontide glows: 
The marquis failed in health — grew more unwell ; 
And, thereupon, a strange event befell. 

His grace's illness was a quartan ague, 

Which the physicians tried in vain to cure. 

I hope, dear reader, it may never plague you : 
Doubtless 'tis quite unpleasant to endure. 

Should this digression seem a little vague, you 
Will see how hard it is a rhyme to lure, 

And pardon me the fault; or, what is better, 

Remould the stanza, and make me your debtor. 



GONELLO. 71 

One remedy there was; but who would dare 
Apply it, hazarding the patient's wrath? 

'Twas simply this, — to take him unaware 

And throw him overboard, by way of bath ; — 

A liberty he might not tamely bear, 

But sweep the rash adventurer from his path. 

Since the physicians would not then apply it, 

Gonello secretly resolved to try it. 

No great regard had he for outward rank ; 

And as the marquis strolled with him one day, 
In idle mood, along the river's bank, 

He pushed him over headlong from the quay; 
Then, seeing him drawn out ere thrice he sank, 

Turned a droll somerset, and ran away; 
Knowing, unless he vanished with velocity, 
His priceless ears might pay for the atrocity. 

The marquis was pulled out, all wet and dripping, 
Enraged at having been so vilely treated; 

Albeit, indeed, the unexpected dipping 

Had, strange to say, his malady unseated. 



72 GONELLO. 

But still he swore, the knave should catch a whipping. 

In this he quickly found himself defeated ; — 
His followers said, Gonello had decamped ; 
On learning which, his highness swore and stamped. 

All with responsive choler were inflamed — 
At least they said so — at the daring deed; 

And, the next day, an edict was proclaimed, 
In which 'twas by authority decreed, 

Gonello was a traitor, who had aimed 

Even at his liege's life ; — and so, " take heed, 

All ye whom it concerns, he dies, if found, 

Ever again, upon Ferrara ground." 

Gonello read the merciless decree, 

Then critically conned it o'er and o'er, 

And pondered every syllable, to see 
If no equivocal intent it bore. 

Some subtle quirk, he thought, some jesting plea, 
Might help his fame and favor to restore. 

Yes! he has wrested an equivocation, 

After hard study, from the proclamation. 



GONELLO. 73 

" 'Tis only on Ferrara ground/' he said, 
" The penalty here threatened can befall ; 

On ground of friendly Padua if I tread, 
Do I infringe the edict? Not at all!" 

So, without fear of jeoparding his head, 

He went to give his grace a morning call, 

And crossed in motley state Ferrara's bound, 

Perched on a wagon, labelled "^.Bafcuan. (Kroutrti." 

By this device he hoped to have evaded 

The clutches of the prowling men of law; 

But, ah ! he did not view the thing as they did, 
Who stood not for entreaty or for flaw, 

But pulled him down, unpitied and unaided, 

And thrust him in a prison's greedy maw, — 

Assuring him that, spite of needful haste, 

The " affair " should be conducted in good taste. 

"The affair? Ha! what affair?" Gonello cried; 

" Can it then be I'm under mortal ban ? 
Is this the way 'gainst lapses to provide, — 

To cut the head off of the erring man ? 



74 GONELLO. 

To make the law a ruthless homicide? 

Is this the wisest, most remedial plan? 
If I escape this sentence of impiety, 
I'll found an anti-blood-spilling society." 

Alas ! 'tis only when the mischief reaches 

Our own quick sense of wrong, we feel for others ; 

'Tis then Experience, the laggard, teaches 

A truth the unfeeling world too often smothers, — 

And yet a truth which conscience ever preaches, — 
£i)e aooo" of all fs lofcgefc in one poor brother's. 

O ! when mankind shall feel this truth aright, 

No Fourier need scheme, no Taylor fight. 

But where's Gonello ? To his dungeon-cell 
A priest has come to give him absolution. 

" Good father," quoth the jester, " all is well ; — 
The spirit carries its own retribution; — 

Yes, its own bias is its heaven or hell. 
But hark ! the signal for my execution ! 

The knell of fun ! Lead on ! Though I'm a sinner, 

By this fair light, I hope to be the winner ! " 



GONELLO. <D 

There stands the scaffold — there the fatal block! 

What crowds have gathered to the scene of blood ! 
Gonello bows his head, and waits the shock 

That shall unseal the life-encircling flood. 
An interval succeeds, that seems to mock 

The horror of the gasping multitude ; 
When, lo! the grinning minister of slaughter 
Dashes upon the block a pail of water ! 

An uproar of applauses rends the air ; — 

" Long live the marquis, and Gonello long ! 

'Twas a sham sentence! O, requital fair! 

And Mercy has but worn the mask of wrong ! " 

Thus, while rebounding joy succeeds despair, 

Exclaim, 'mid wild hurrahs, the hustling throng ; 

And Laughter treads on Grief's receding heel, 

Stunning the fugitive with peal on peal. 

But soft ! the jester — why does he remain, 

On the uncrimsoned platform, mute and still? 

Has agonizing terror stunned his brain, 

Or sudden gladness sent too fierce a thrill? 



76 G0NELL0. 

Faints he from rapture or excess of pain 1 

His heart beats not — his brow is pale and chill 
Light from his eyes, heat from his limbs has fled ; 
Jesu Maria! he is dead — is dead! 

Ay, the wrought spirit, straining for the light, 
And fixed in its conceit that death was near, 

Felt the sharp steel in harmless water smite, 

Heard the air part as no one else could hear. 

Its own volition was its power of flight 
Above this gross, material atmosphere. 

A phantom axe was wielded to forestall 

The stroke it deemed the headsman would let fall. 

And so the farce became a tragedy. 

The moral of it you may briefly read ; — 
Carried too far, jokes practical may be 

Edge tools to make the meddlers' fingers bleed. 
But, poor Gonello ! spendthrift child of glee ! 

Wit's bounteous almoner! 'twas hard indeed, 
That thou, the prime dispenser of good jokes, 
Should fall at last the victim of a hoax ! 



GONELLO. 77 

And yet the marquis, who had but designed 

Rough trick for trick, deserves our pity more; 

For, from that hour of grief, his peace of mind 
Incurably was wounded at the core. 

Mirth bade his heart farewell — he pined and pined, 
As though Life held no further joy in store. 

Gonello had both balked him of his jest, 

And himself played his last one and his best. 



78 



THE MARTYR OF THE ARENA, 



Honored be the hero evermore, 

Who at Mercy's call has nobly died ! 

Echoed be his name from shore to shore, 
With immortal chronicles allied ! 



Verdant be the turf upon his dust, 

Bright the sky above, and soft the air ! 

In the grove set up his marble bust, 

And with garlands crown it, fresh and fair. 

In melodious numbers, that shall live 
With the music of the rolling spheres, 

Let the minstrel's inspiration give 
His eulogium to the future years! 



THE MARTYR OF THE ARENA. 79 

Not the victor in his country's cause, 

Not the chief who leaves a people free, 

Not the framer of a nation's laws, 

Shall deserve a greater fame than he. 



Hast thou heard, in Rome's declining day, 
How a youth, by Christian zeal impelled, 

Swept the sanguinary games away 
Which the Coliseum once beheld? 



Crowds on crowds had gathered to the sight, 
And the tiers their gazing thousands showed, 

When two gladiators, armed for fight, 
O'er the arena's sandy circle strode. 

Rang the dome with plaudits loud and long, 
As, with shields advanced, the athletes stood 

Was there no one in that eager throng 
To denounce the spectacle of blood ? 



80 THE MARTYR OF THE ARENA. 

Ay, Telemachus, with swelling frame, 

Saw the inhuman sport renewed once more 

Few were gathered there could tell his name, 
And a cross was all the badge he wore; 



Yet, with brow elate and godlike mien, 

Stepped he forth upon the circling sand; 

i 

And, while all were wondering at the scene, 
Checked the encounter with a daring hand. 

" Romans ! " cried he, " let this reeking sod 
Never more with human blood be stained ! 

Let no image of the living God 

In unhallowed combat be profaned ! 

" Ah ! too long hath this colossal dome 

Failed to sink and hide your brutal shows : 

Here I call upon assembled Rome 

Now to swear, they shall forever close ! " 



THE MARTYR OF THE ARENA. 81 

Parted thus, the combatants, with joy, 

'Mid the tumult found the means to fly; 

In the arena stood the undaunted boy, 

And, with looks adoring, gazed on high. 



Pealed the shout of wrath on every side ; 

Every hand was forward to assail ; 
"Slay him! slay — " a thousand voices cried, 

Wild with fury ; but he did not quail. 

Hears he, as entranced he looks above, 

Strains celestial, which the menace drown 1 

Sees he angels, with their eyes of love, 

Beck'ning to him with a martyr's crown? 

Fiercer swelled the people's angry shout; 

Launched against him flew the stones like rain ; 
Death and terror circled him about ; 

But he stood and perished — not in vain ! 
6 



\ THE MARTYR OF THE ARENA. 

Not in vain the youthful martyr fell : 

Then and there he crushed a bloody creed ; 

And his high example shall impel 
Future heroes to as brave a deed. 



Stony answers yet remain for those 

Who would question and precede the time : 

In their season, may they meet their foes, 
Like Telemachus, with front sublime ! 



83 



WOODHULL 



'Twas when Long Island's heights beheld 

The king's invading horde, 
That, by outnumbering foes compelled, 

Our chief gave up his sword. 

Then spoke the victor : " Now from me 

No mercy shall you wring, 
Unless, base rebel, on your knee, 

You cry, ' God stve the king ! ' " 

With reverent but undaunted tone, 
Then Woodhull made reply, — 

" No king I own, save one alone, 
The Lord of earth and sky ! 



84 WOODHULL. 

" But far from me the wish that ill 
Your monarch should befall; 

So, freely, and with right good will, 
I'll say, God save us all ! " 



Shouted the foeman, "Paltering slave! 

Repeat, without delay, 
'God save the king,' nor longer brave 

The fury that can slay ! " 

But Woodhull said, "Unarmed, I hear; 

Yet threats cannot appal; 
Ne'er passed these lips the breath of fear, 

And so, God s%ve us all ! " 



" Then, rebel, rue thy stubborn will," 

The ruffian victor cried ; 
"This weapon shall my threat fulfil; 

So perish in thy pride ! " 



WOODHULL. 85 

Rapid as thought, the murderous blow 

Fell on the prisoner's head; 
With warrior rage he scanned his foe, 

Then, staggering, sank and bled. 



But anger vanished with his fall ; 

His heart the wrong forgave : 
Dying, he sighed, "God save you all, 

And me, a sinner, save ! " 



86 



THE LAST OF HIS TRIBE 



A sunny slope upon a mountain's side: 
Green woods and yellow fields of waving corn 
Look down upon the Indians' birchen tents. 
The young men of the tribe are at their sports : 
Who is the fleetest hunter of them all? 
Whose arrow floats the surest to the mark? 
Who is in council wise, in battle brave ? 

'Tis the youthful Etlah; — 

On his breast is hung 

Many a shining trophy, 

Which proclaims his worth. 

Years fled. The white men burst upon that vale, 
And the fair hamlet was a desolation. 
The warriors of the tribe are met in council : 
Whose kindling eye the indignant tear-drop fills? 



THE LAST OF HIS TRIBE. S7 

Whose matchless tones of eloquent appeal 
With one vibration shake a thousand hearts, 
And wake a thousand echoes to his cry? 

Tis the chieftain Etlah's ; — 

He is clad for fight, 

And his cry is " Vengeance ! " 

As he lifts his spear. 

The battle-field, the clangor, and the smoke ; 
The white man's trumpet, and the Indian's yell ; 
The flying steed, his fetlocks clogged with gore, 
The trampled rider and the dying foe ! 
Whose rallying shout is loudest 'mid the fray? 
In whose right hand has Havoc placed the axe? 
Who, meteor-like, streams through the ranks in blood ? 

'Tis the avenging Etlah; — 

Though his little band 

Fall in heaps around him, 

Yet he does not quail. 

Night ends the combat. On the trodden grass, 
Wet more with slaughter than the dews of heaven, 



88 THE LAST OF HIS TRIBE. 

The unconscious stars, serenely bright, look down. 
Beside a rushing stream, some dusky forms 
Lie couched in slumber ; but one stands apart, 
Leans on his rifle and surveys the field : 
What lonely watcher thus surveys the field? 

'Tis the intrepid Etlah, 

Calm in his despair; 

Lo! his best and bravest 

Lifeless strow the plain ! 

Under a tree scathed by the lightning's bolt, 
Meet emblem of his fate, a warrior kneels ; — 
For him, no living heart beats tenderly; 
Friend, kinsman, brother, sister, mother, wife — 
All are no more ! — his heart is desolate ; 
And for the shadowy hunting-grounds he sighs, 
And prays to the Great Spirit for release : 

'Tis the aged Etlah, 

Last of all his tribe ; — 

Who remains to cheer him 1 

Who remains to mourn? 



89 



THE DEATH OF WARREN 



SET TO MUSIC BY W. R. DEMPSTER. 



When the war-cry of Liberty rang through the land, 
To arms sprang our fathers the foe to withstand; 
On old Bunker Hill their entrenchments they rear, 
When the army is joined by a young volunteer. 
" Tempt not death ! " cried his friends ; but he bade 

them good-by, 
Saying, " O ! it is sweet for our country to die ! " 

The tempest of battle now rages and swells, 
'Mid the thunder of cannon, the pealing of bells; 
And a light, not of battle, illumes yonder spire — 
Scene of woe and destruction; — 'tis Charlestown on 

fire! 
The young volunteer heedeth not the sad cry, 
But murmurs, " 'Tis sweet for our country to die ! " 



90 THE D1ATB OK « 

With tmmpeti and banners the foe draweth near : 
A volley of musketry checks their c irei r I 
With tin- dead and the dying the bill-aide is mi-mud, 
And the shoot through our lines i i, "The daj is our 

own!" 

"Not vet," cries the young volunteer, "do they tl\ ! 
Stand firm I — it is sweet for our country to die!' 1 

Now onr powder is spent, and they rally again; — 
"Retreat!" says our chief, unarmed we re- 

main !" 
But the young volunteer lingers yet on the i- 
Reluctant to fly, and disdaining to weld. 
A shot I Ali! he falls! but Ins life's Lai 
Is, '"Tis sweet, O, 'tis sweet fix our country to dj 

And thus Warren foil I Happy death ! noble fall ! 

To perish for country at Liberty's call ! 
Should the flag of invasion profane everm 

The blue of our seas or the green of our sfrore, 
Ifaj the I i thai cry, — 

" 'Til t for our country to die ! " 



91 



ODE 



FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OP WASHINGTON S BIRTHDAY. 



Tune — " Hail, Columbia ! 



When, on Yorktown's battle-field, 
He beheld Comwallis yield, 

" Cheer not ! " said our patriot chief; 
"Let Posterity's acclaim 
Sound the triumph and the fame." 
Mute were our victorious host; 
And it was no empty boast : 
We, and freemen yet unborn, 
Shall salute his birthday morn. 

Now, then, let our voices ring; 

Now memorial tributes bring! 

Are there battles to be won? 

Let the cry be, " Washington ! " 



M 

In our oatioo'i doubtful day, 

In hrr peril aiul diHii.iy, 

When the brtrest hearts n 
tdiad m the eternal rock, 
Be nithetood the toppeotehoofcj 

And when Victory CUM down 

"With her shining Ituiel-uuffii, 
Still hie glory found incn 
Por be irai the fin! in pc 

Though thy frame is in the d 

Spirit of the brave and ju>t, 

Tlioii art all thy country's still : 
Still thy great example li. 

And its life to million! gii 
Still thy influence we hail, 
Still thy e..uiiMl> -hall prevail ; 
And thy \ery name 80*11 be 
Like a spell to Liberty ! 



93 



THE DAYS THAT ARE PAST 



We will not deplore them, the days that are past : 
The gloom of misfortune is over them cast; 
They were lengthened by sorrow and sullied by care, 
Their griefs were too many, their joys were too rare; 
Yet now that their shadows are on us no more, 
Let us welcome the prospect that brightens before ! 

We've cherished fair hopes, we've plotted brave 

schemes, — 
We've lived till we find them illusive as dreams; 
Wealth has melted like snow that is grasped in the 

hand, 
And the steps we have climbed sink beneath us like 

sand; 
Yet shall we despond while of health unbereft, 
And honor, bright honor, and freedom are left? 



THE HAYS THAI 



O, shall \. id, while the peg i of time 

i < i op o bt lore m their 1 1 iblime 1 

While, ennobled bj treasures m< i gold, 

ii walk with the heroea and nartyn of old ? 

Wlule humanity irhiipefl Rich tale*) IB I 

I dj the heart, 1 1 k * ■ sweet music, t<> fa 

O, -Inll we d eepo n d, while, with runon still fl 

We can gaze <>n the sky, an<l the earth, and the sea? 

While the sunshine can waken a bnral of del 

And the j hy Qlghfl ? 

While each harmony ninning throngfa n;ilnr<- I 
In our spirits, the impulse of gladness and pf 

O, 1ft us no loogei then vainly lament 

•hat are faded, and days that U 

But. l»y faith nnrorsaken, nnawed by miachtn 

On If aring banner -till fixed be out -lance; 

And should Fortune prow cruel and falae to tb 

;s look to the future, and not to t! 



95 



THE GAY DECEIVER, 



SET TO MUSIC BY W. B DEMPSTEB. 



Summer wind ! Summer wind ! 

Where hast thou been ? 
Chasing the gossamer 

Over the green ? 
Rifling the cowslip's wealth, 

Down in the dale? 
Light-pinioned pilferer, 

Tell me thy tale! 

M I am a rover gay, 
Dashing and free, — 

Now on the land astray, 
Now on the sea. 



96 TI! 

I quiff the honey-breath 
Of the Toooj 

I ki-> the \ i 

Where the brook flows." 

Out on thee, fhgitire, 

Fickle, untrue I 

Leai ing the i iolet, 
Whom wilt thou v. 

Canal thou delighted be 
With heeiUi undone 1 

Canst thou show constancy 
Never to one? 

M Ah! heel "»»■, maiden dear ! 
Torn n<»t away : 

I here a rarer been 
Until to-day ; 

But now I find a home 

Where I <:ili re-t j 

Capti kk, at leu 

Here on thj br( 



97 



FLORETTE. 



ILLUSTRATIVE OF A PICTURE. 



Spring-flower of loveliness ! gentle Florette! 
Who that once saw thee could ever forget? 
While a spark of life lingers, this heart and this brain 
Shall thy beauty recall and thy image retain. 

Though Time has sped far on his merciless flight 
Since first thy dear features enchanted my sight, 
As clearly they rise upon memory yet 
As when, in the bloom of thy graces, we met. 

'Twas a bright day in autumn : on hill-side and plain, 
Like a yellower sunshine, appeared the bright grain; 
And there 'mid the reapers, Flcrette, didst thou stand, 
With the spoils of the harvest half-clasped in thy hand. 
7 



98 FLORETTF. 

Well and boldly the 1 miner hath ventured to trace 
Thy dark-folded hair and thy luminous i'.ic.v ; 
But the image engravm A in my heart, 

Is matchless in nature and fairer than art. 



99 



THE SPRING-TIME WILL RETURN 



The birds are mute, the bloom is fled, 

Cold, cold the north winds blow; 
And radiant Summer lieth dead 

Beneath a shroud of snow. 
Sweet Summer ! well may we regret 

Thy brief, too brief sojourn ; 
But, while we grieve, we'll not forget, 

The Spring-time will return! 

Dear friend, the hills rise bare and bleak 
That bound thy future years; 

Clouds veil the sky, no golden streak, 
No rainbow light appears; 



100 TU :.ME WILL IS1 

Mi-.-lniirr lit- trtcked thj -chemes, 

Tu wrerk — to whelm — to burn; 

But wintry-dark thOQgfa FortUM 
TIM Spring4HM will return ! 

red <>ne I where no su: hine 

Th\ mortal frame ire laid ; 

But O, thy spirit's form diwno 

Waits no sepulchral -hade! 
by those bopei which, plumed with light, 

The sod, ending, spurn, 
Love's paradise shall bloom more bright — 

The Spring-time will return! 



101 



THE FOUNTAIN IN THE CITY. 



Amid the city's din and dust, thy foaming column 

springs, 
And on the trodden soil around refreshing moisture 

flings. 

Thou'rt like that grateful human heart, O fountain 

pure and bright ! 
Which, in the midst of sin and care, is ever fresh 

and white; 

Which scatters love and joy around, and, as it gushes, 

shows 
Each ray from Heaven, its fountain-head, and Faiths 

prismatic bows. 



1CW 



THE CAPTIVE. 



'• Rjn from thy dungeon il<x»r ! 

\. , tliy liour ii nigh ! 
Look tin the rising win once m 

And then prepare to die ! 
U not the ^r\\i hit I 

Tin- morning gt|e horn* iw< 

AVith Spring's iir-t o<l<»r- in the air, 
Her at our I 

"Captive! gaze u«ll aroiin.l: 

WooJdst leave thii cheerfnl lighl — 

This \\«.rl«l. where plra-un - >«• ahound 



THE CAPTIVE. 103 

Listen ! a word, a sign, 

That thou abjur'st thy creed, 
Life, riches, honors — all are thine: 

Ha! wilt thou now be freed?" 

The captive gazed, and said, — 

" O, lovely is the light ; 
And fairer scenes were never spread 

Beneath my waking sight; 
And fragrant is the breath 

Of this reviving breeze ; 
But O, more fair than all, is death, 

To him whose spirit sees ! 

" For that is life indeed, 

Which heeds not time and space; 
And freedom, where no bonds impede 

The spirit's heavenward race. 
O, speed me to that goal, 

Beneath that brighter sky ! 
Death cannot daunt the immortal soul ; — 

Brother, lead on to die ! " 



iui 



FANTASY AM) TACT. 



Tboi 

Witl 

And \- t the m l I . . the more 

I recoiled thj f. 
Each feature to m? mind n i 
An im ige of the paet, 

Which, where the shad f.ilN, 

b i Bred t<> the laat 

Hut the irho iff in thine 

Waa not, alai ' of earth ; 

And \<t for divine, 

rth. 



FANTASY AND FACT. 105 

She haunted me by summer streams, 

And burst upon my sight, 
When, through the pleasant Land of Dreams, 

I roamed at will, by night. 

Lost idol! why didst thou depart? 

O, let thine earnest eyes — 
Abstraction, vision, though thou art — 

Once more my heart surprise ! 
She comes, a fair and sylph-like girl : 

Whom, happy, doth she seek? 
And raven curls their links unfurl 

Adown her radiant cheek. 

I clasp her hands in mine once more — 

Again I am a boy ! 
The past shows nothing to deplore, 

The future is all joy. 
We wander through deserted halls ; 

We climb the wooded height; 
We hear the roar of waterfalls, 

And watch the eagle's flight. 



100 

We Maud where sun.-et Oaloffl lie 

Upon ■ lake at n 

Ami < >, uhat cloudl <»f T\nan dffl 
Arc sloping down tin- uc-l ! 

And high above the purple pile, 

The BTlinj star ;i|.|m 
Till, as we gtze, tlie loud one's snide, 

Like twilight's, en4> in '' 

I turn to thee, and start to i 
;u that bright ideal, — 

The eyee, the shape, the ringlets free, 

The falicif , e d ! 

Two risioufl here irajlaid mi heart, 

A fajbfl OQfl and a true ; 

And, by the soul of t rut h, thou art 
The fairer of the two ! 



107 



A MORNING INVOCATION. 



Wake, slumberer ! Summer's sweetest hours 

Are speeding fast away; 
The sun has waked the opening flowers 

To greet the new-born day ; 
The deer leaps from his leafy haunt, 

And swims the purple lake; 
The birds their grateful carols chant, — 

All Nature cries, " Awake ! " 

O, lose not in unconscious ease 

An hour so heavenly fair : 
Come forth, while yet the glittering trees 

Wave in the genial air, — 



M A 

Wlulc \<t | (!-u\ t'rr-lincss fills 

The momiiif Jo, 

As o'er the POOdl and uj> the hills 

The miat rolli from the vale. 

! ' tOO -(M.n, 

The L'lory thai! d 
And, in the fen xi I OO, 

The 

Tl. the boar 

It^ early bloom pan 

Bj all that - - beautiful and l.n. 

I call on thee. Awal 



109 



THE FUGITIVE FROM LOVE 



Is there but a single theme 
For the youthful poet's dream? 
Is there but a single wire 
To the youthful poet's lyre? 
Earth below and heaven above — 



Can he sing of nought but love ? 



Nay ! the battle's dust I see — 
God of war, I follow thee; 
And, in martial numbers, raise 
Worthy paeans to thy praise! 
Ah ! she meets me on the field — 
If I fly not, I must yield. 



110 thi: 

Jolly patron of the grape, 

To tl»y arms I will | 

Quick, the lOfJf DOOtai bring — 

"lo Bfteeho!" I uill sn.g! 

Hi ! COttfilNOfl I <'\< ry sip 

But reminds me of In r lip. 

Pallas, give me wisdom's page, 

And awake my epic r 

Love i< Boi ting, l<»vr i< vain ; — 

I will try a nobler -train ! 

O, perplexity ! my books 

But reflect her haunting looks, 

Jupiter, on thee I cry — 

Take mo and my lyre on higfcl 

Lo! the stars beneath me i_ r lenm — 
II. r. , < ) p. Bt, ■ a '■ 

ry eh. rd Is whtflp MiiJ, " LOVC ! 



Ill 



WHEN THE NIGHT-WIND BEWAILETH 



SET TO MUSIC BY W. R. DEMPSTER. 



When the night-wind bewaileth 

The fall of the year, 
And sweeps from the forest 

The leaves that are sere, 
I wake from my slumber 

And list to the roar; 
And it saith to my spirit, 

" No more — never more ! 
O ! never more ! " 

Through memory's chambers, 
The forms of the past, 

The joys of my childhood 
Rush by with the blast; 



119 wii. 

And thr lotf OftV 

1 ned lo id 

:i witli the nighfrJ) 

u No more — m-wr n 

O ! aerer mor* 

The trees of tin- fan 
Shall blossom ftgtin, 

And the wild birds shall ciml 

A soul-thrilling strain ; 
lint tli- nhrred 

No r estore ; 

And it- vful 

No more — never more 1 
O! aerer morel 



113 



TO A SINGING BIRD. 



Blithe little prisoned warbler, 

Thy silvery tones outbreak, 
Like raindrops among summer leaves, 

Or on a glassy lake ! 
How can such gleeful carols 

Gush from thy quivering breast, 
When in that gloomy cage thou'rt held, 

Far from thy native nest ? 

O, dost thou never languish, 
And droop thy head in pain; 

Missing the genial island-home 
Thou may'st not see a<jain? 



J 1-1 TO :D. 

palm-trt e Km a ■■ 

With bl<M "iii- " 

ide, — 

\ . ■ . ■ 

Thj am, 

II re pre tk and i grown ; 

And filled 1- the golden hue, 

That on thy plumage ibooei — 

Brick walls and duftj :its 

\rr all that meet thj 

Pot thou an eteo hidden Grow 
The bine, impartiaJ >ky. 

id y\ thou I. en 

Thy Hi! 
And thy fall heart exult; 

forth m long ; — 

\m exile rod i i 

All Lorn ' reft, 

The impulse that now prompts thy 

Tin 



TO A SINGING BIRD. 115 

O joy-creating minstrel! 

I bless thee for the thought, 
Which thy untutored harmony, 

Thy hymn of love hath brought : 
If, in thy hour of darkness, 

Such grateful glee is thine, 
How should the immortal hope within 

Forbid me to repine! 



110 



THE FIRST SNOW-STORM 



As for the first wild lower, 

In the early time of spring; 
\> tor the -ummer shower, 
When earth i- langoiahin 

a\i for the rainbow's blending i 

As for the day-star*! L T h>\\', — 
I looked fix the descending 

Of the first Norembef see 

It comes! on pinions air\ 
The vir ht. 

Like the torn plumei I I 

Or the apple hi oaaofiw irhite; 



THE FIRST SNOW-STORM. 117 

With undulating motion, 

The frozen ground they reach, 

Or melt into the ocean, 

That booms along the beach. 

Why watch I thus the falling 

Of the first November snow 1 
Because on me 'tis calling 

In the voice of long ago ; 
Because it ever blendeth 

With the memories of the boy ; — 
Each flake, as it descendeth, 

Enshrouds a perished joy ! 

O! for those days when, rushing 

Into the powdery air, 
I felt the free, wild gushing 

Of a spirit without care ! 
How, through the drifts that whitened 

Our window-sills at home, 
I dashed, with heart unfrightened, 

Like a dolphin through the foam ! 



I IS THE FIRST Bit Ml. 

Ami then tin mmrj ringing 

()!" ilx- sleigh-belli at the <loor, 
Au.l thfl winter i 

A thousand pk 

Ami tiif dc 11 firi< oda m h i iiroanded 
Our tog-deToaring nearth, 

And the (»l<i nngi thai raaoan 

And the bean of blameless mirth! 

Ali. ow of N<>\ 

Tti. thoe eoel recall ; 

But with them I riMiicmlicr, 

They shnt! ee mert befall : 
OoBpeniOBi h rled, 

With uhnm dm iet n lied ; 
Am! •hearted, 

And some arc with the dead. 



119 



SUMMER IN THE HEART. 



The cold blast at the casement beats ; 

The window-panes are white ; 
The snow whirls through the empty streets 

It is a dreary night ! 
Sit down, old friend ; the wine-cups wait : 

Fill, to o'erflowing, fill ! 
Though Winter howleth at the gate, 

In our hearts 'tis summer still ! 

For we full many summer joys 

And greenwood sports have shared, 

When, free and ever-roving boys, 

The rocks, the streams, we dared ; 



ISO ' flT. 

V n.l . M I look upon thy I 

B :. \ . b toll "Yr jr< in of ill, 
Mv beari flies to thai bappj pi 
When it ii surasner still. 

"i ii. i i_!i lik - n leaves on the pro tad, 

( ) ir t irlv DOpOl .-ire itfOWD, 

And cherished flowers lie deed iroojid, 
Ami singing birds ire flown, 

The rerdore n not faded quit 
.\..t mute ill tones that thrill ; 

Ami seeing, bearing thee to-night, 
In mv he m 'tis sanunef still. 

Fill up ! The olden times come bee* 

With lighl and life once more ; 
\v< scan the Future's sutury track 

Prom ^oath's enchanted shore; — 
The loet return: through fldds of bleosi 

M srandef at our will ; 
Gone i- tin loom — 

In oui he irts 'tis summer still. 



121 



THE CONQUEROR. 



A trampled battle plain ! 

The work of death was done ; 
On the unburied slain, 

Through mist, red looked the sun ; 
The trumpet's blare, the shout, 

The quick artillery's roar, 
The carnage and the rout 

Shook the wide field no more. 

Surrounded by the dead, 

Wherever strayed his eyes, 

His gory steed his bed, 

The soldier strove to rise. 



122 THE CONQUEROR. 

Vain was the effort — vain! 

The death-wound in his side, 
The ebbing blood, the pain, 

Life's rallying power defied. 

" And must I, then," he said, 

" With all my dreams of fame, 
Of hosts to conquest led, 

Perish without a name? 
O, for my mother's voice ! 

My home, my native sky ! 
And her, my true heart's choice, 

For whom in death I sigh ! " 

He paused : a maid, whose hair 

Streamed loosely on the breeze, 
Sank wounded by him there; 

It is herself he sees ! 
Death, thou canst not appall ! 

Ambition, quit the field ! 
Love is the conqueror — all 

To woman's love must yield ! 



123 



ADELAIDE'S TRIUMPH 



iFtrst $art, 

" Adelaide, come stand beside me, 

Stand beside my pillowed head j — 
From my eyes the light is fading, 

From my cheek the hue is fled : 
Let me hold thy hand so dainty, 

Let me touch thy silky hair; 
Ringlets gray and fingers wasted 

With them poorly may compare. 

" Come, and let compassion summon 
Thoughts of ruth to move thy heart, 

Gentle thoughts, that, full of pity, 
Take the contrite sinner's part ; 



124 Adelaide's triumph. 

Reverential recollections 

Of His words who came to save; 
Of His words that breathed forgiveness. 

Of His mercy that forgave. 

" Where a stately stream is gliding, 

Near a slope of wooded ground, 
Rises Lord De Warrene's mansion, 

Fairest of the country round : 
Eighteen summers have I counted, 

Since its widowed master brought 
To this roof a female infant, — 

Here a foster-mother sought. 

" ' Too much care thou canst not show her,' 

Said he, with a heavy sigh ; 
' For to give the dear one being 

Did my noble lady die.' 
' Proud am I to tend thy daughter,' 

Answered I with zealous tone ; 
But I started, on comparing 

That sweet infant with my own. 



Adelaide's triumph. 125 

" Child of health and matchless beauty, 

Born to gladden, seemed the one; 
While my own poor bud lay drooping, 

Ere its morning was begun. 
Lord De Warrene left his daughter; 

But an evil thought had sway 
In my soul, before he claimed her, 

Two brief summers from that day. 

" Do not clasp my hand so tightly; 

Gaze not with an air so wild ; 
I'm thy foster-mother only — 

Yes ! thou art De Warrene's child ! 
In the scroll beneath my pillow, 

Proofs that none will question find ; — 
All I can of reparation, 

Dying, would I leave behind." 

Wonder at the strange disclosure, 

Anguish at the sight of death, 
In the maiden's heart contending, 

Seemed to battle for her breath : 



126 Adelaide's triumph. 

But a step was heard approaching, 
And a distant door unlatched; 

Shaking off those stiffening fingers, 
Eagerly the scroll she snatched. 

When the last sad rites were ended, 

In that room she stood alone; 
Bare the rafters, coarse the ceiling, 

And the floor of naked stone. 
And a smile of bitter meaning 

O'er her clouded features passed, 
As that treasured scroll she opened, 

And a look around her cast. 

Then she read, and finished reading, 

And her passion deeper grew ; 
To her brow the ruby mounted, 

From her eyes the lightning flew. 
" What ! " she murmured, " was I cheated 

Of my birth's exalted rights — 
Of a lordly sire's affection, 

Of a stately home's delights? 



Adelaide's triumph. 127 

" Was I made to herd unduly 

With the poor and lowly-bred; 
Made to join in rustic labors — 

Rise before the dawn from bed? 
Was I clothed in homely raiment, 

Fed on plain and frugal fare, 
I, the Lord De Warrene's daughter, 

I, the Lord De Warrene's heir? 

" Has, the while, a mere usurper — 

A discarded peasant child — 
Filled the station I was born to, 

And my father's heart beguiled? 
Has she been the mansion's lady, 

Robed in silks with jewels rare, 
While the whole of my adorning 

Was a wild rose for my hair? 

" But the hour of retribution, 

Long deferred, at length has come ; 

I will face this changeling lady, 

And a word shall strike her dumb : 



128 Adelaide's triumph. 

I will say to knights and servants, 
1 Let the low impostor be ! 

And your true-born, lawful lady 

Clad in these poor garments, see!' 

" Then to Lord De Warrene turning, 

Bold in my attested claim, 
Will I lay the proof before him, — 

Proof of her maternal shame ! 
Proudly will I wait his answer, 

At his feet in reverence kneel ; 
Then my triumph, my requital, 

She shall surely see and feel ! " 

Thus, in menaces impatient, 

Forth the maiden's anger broke; 
Eagerly she threw her mantle 

O'er her shoulders, as she spoke ; 
Then, accoutred for a journey, 

Hastened from that mean abode; 
And threw back the whitewashed wicket, 

Opening on the dusty road. 



ADELAIDE S TRIUMPH. 

But not many steps she'd taken, 

When she paused and looked behind ; 
There the rose-bush she had planted, 

There the honey-suckle twined. 
Do they mutely seem to chide her, 

That she turns in friendly quest, 
Gathers flowers and buds, and gives them 

To her lily-shaming breast? 

None could now dispute her beauty, 

As affection lit the gloom 
In those eyes, whose tender beaming 

Fell upon her garden's bloom. 
Shape, and mien, and chiselled feature, 

Drooping lash, and affluent hair, — 
All seemed fairer by the token, 

In the heart was something fair. 

But she paused a moment only; 

And, when she upraised her head, 
Not the bough relieved from pressure 

Springs more buoyant than her tread. 
9 



130 Adelaide's triumph. 

Why on yonder wooded mountain 
Hath she fixed her straining eyes? 

Close behind that purple summit 
Lord De Warrene's mansion lies. 



In a parlor wide and lofty, 

Where the summer breezes came, 
Sat the lady of the mansion, — 

Constance was the lady's name. 
Covered were the walls with velvet, — 

Blue the tint, but heavenly light; 
Nailed with frequent stars, all golden, 

Mimicking the stars of night. 

And a mirror reached, broad gleaming, 
From the ceiling to the floor; 

Set between two Gothic windows, 
Fronting an emblazoned door; 



Adelaide's triumph. 131 

And a carpet, rich and downy, 

Toil of many a Turkish loom, 
Leaf and bud and flower inwoven, 

Lent its lustre to the room. 

Light the maiden's silken labor ; 

Yet she quickly threw it by, 
And her weary hands enfolding, 

Heaved a languor-laden sigh. 
Tall and slender was her stature, — 

Blue her eyes and pale her cheek, 
And the language of her features, 

Like Madonna's, pure and meek ! 

As she leaned, in idle dreaming, 

Where the sunset breeze blew cool, 
Came a mingled sound of voices 

From the marble vestibule; 
And a lackey, in attendance, 

Uttered words as if to chide ; 
While a youthful female stranger 

In a queenly tone replied. 



132 Adelaide's triumph. 

With her words the door was opened; 

And, in humble garb arrayed, 
In the presence of the lady 

Stood a fair and panting maid : 
Of a long, unaided journey 

Shoes and raiment bore the trace; 
And exertion's humid crimson 

Like a wet rose made her face. 

With fatigue her limbs were failing, 

Passion had her brain o'erwrought ; 
And she leaned against the wainscot 

To recall the power of thought. 
"Tell me," said the Lady Constance, 

" Whom, sweet maiden, would'st thou seek ? 
Tell me why thy breast is heaving ; 

Why this crimson paints thy cheek. 

" But I'll tax thee not to answer, 

For thou'rt weak and trembling still ; 

Thou shalt come and rest beside me, 
And instruct me at thy will." 



Adelaide's triumph. 133 

Then, her flexile waist encircling, 

Constance led her to a chair, 
And with kerchief fine and fragrant, 

Wiped her cheek and forehead fair. 

Adelaide, in silent wonder, 

Every look and motion scanned ; 
Noted well the lady's features, 

And her thin, transparent hand. 
She had dreamed of glances haughty, 

Listened for a scornful word ; 
But she saw an angel smiling, 

And an angel's accents heard. 

" I'll not chide her," thought the maiden ; 

" Soft and mild shall be my tone ; 
For I should at least repay her 

With a kindness like her own." 
Then, the lady's hand uplifting, 

Thrice she strove to tell her tale; 
Thrice her heart, the purpose stifling, 

On the brink made utterance fail. 



134 Adelaide's triumph. 

But she rose and looked around her, 

Over all that rich saloon ; 
Round on many a gilded moulding, 

And on many a silk festoon. 
And the maiden stepped elated 

O'er the carpet's gay design, 
As the thought swelled in her bosom, 

11 All these glittering gauds are mine ! " 

With that glance and that reflection 

Came her half-retreating mood ; 
And, with footstep light and hasty, 

She returned where Constance stood. 
But as words for vent were struggling, 

In her better nature's spite, 
Suddenly a beauteous vision 

Rose before her wandering sight. 

'Twas the figure of a matron, 

Who with mild and saint-like grace, 

And all traits of mortal beauty, 
Seemed to gaze into her face. 



Adelaide's triumph. 1&5 

'Twas so lifelike that she started; 

But the Lady Constance said, 
" 'Tis a painting of my mother, 

Of my mother, who is dead." 

" Of thy mother ? " sighed the maiden, 

Gazing on the picture still. 
" Ay, thou strange one," answered Constance ; 

"Why do tears thy eyelids fill?" 
" Ask not ! " Adelaide besought her ; 

And upon her knees she fell, 
Bowed upon her hands her forehead, 

And let tears her passion tell. 

" Hark ! " exclaimed the Lady Constance, — 

" Hark ! I hear my father's tread ! " 
And she glided from the parlor, 

While her pallid cheek grew red. 
Then uplooked the kneeling maiden, 

On that pictured face once more : 
" O, my mother dear," she murmured, 

" Hear me, guide me, I implore ! 



136 Adelaide's triumph. 

11 Well I know I may not meet thee 

In thy happy home above, 
Till each proud and selfish feeling 

Is cast out by perfect love; 
And I fear the thoughts are evil 

Which within my bosom fight, 
For thy smile hath waked my spirit, 

And 'tis groping for the right. 

" Slender is my store of knowledge, 

With the poor and simple bred ; 
But I know we live more fully 

When this clog of flesh is dead ; 
And that God is just and gracious, 

Every day I feel the more : 
O, my mother, bid him help me, — 

Hear me, guide me, I implore ! " 

Rising then, she brushed the tear-drop 
From her cheek's vermilion bloom, 

As, with Constance, Lord De Warrene 
Entered hand in hand the room. 



Adelaide's triumph. 137 

Noble not in title only, 

But in heart and form he seemed , 
And the gentleness of manhood 

From his open features beamed. 

To a dim recess withdrawing, 

Adelaide observed him well ; 
Heard the fond paternal welcome 

From his ready lips that fell ; 
Marked the love-lit glance responsive 

In the lady's pleading eyes : 
Were the twain not child and father, 

Theirs were even holier ties. 

And a struggle, brief but bitter, 

Shook the maiden's inmost soul; 
And from her fast-heaving bosom 

She half drew the fatal scroll. 
But the memory of her mother 

Came to save her on the verge; 
And she hid the tell-tale parchment 

With her humble scarf of serge. 



138 



ADELAIDE S TRIUMPH. 

Of a clear and steadfast purpose 

Now her kindling visage tells; 
And the majesty of Conscience 

Every recreant pleading quells. 
Smile, ye ever watchful angels ! — 

She has won the heavenly palm ; 
And a peace the world can give not 

Makes her confident and calm. 

In his flaming bush, the martyr 

May a lofty courage show ; 
With a pure, intrepid ardor, 

Freedom's chief to battle go ; 
But, my maiden, in the combat 

Of thy motives, good and bad, 
Thou hast shown as true a mettle, 

Thou as great a triumph had ! 



ADELAIDE S TRIUMPH. 



139 



And was this the end of trial ? 

Never more did pride assail? 
Did her spirit, unrepining, 

Never waver, never quail ? 
Ah ! no lack of human leaven 

Was there in the maiden's mould; 
She could feel the charms of station, 

She could prize the power of gold. 

Goodness is no stable treasure 

You within the heart may lock ; 
Like the air, it groweth purer 

From the wind, the thunder-shock. 
All its life in action lieth; 

Without evil thoughts to try, 
Without buffets, without sorrows, 

Ere maturing it would die. 



140 



ADELAIDE S TRIUMPH. 

Handmaid to the Lady Constance 

Now had Adelaide become. 
She was slighted by the many, 

Noted for her face by some; 
And at length a noble gallant — 

How could such a gallant fail ? — 
Knelt, and, with a graceful candor, 

Breathed a strangely-pleasing tale. 

"I was sent to woo thy mistress," 

Said he, with a gentle smile ; 
" And I might have loved her duly, 

Had I not seen thee the while. 
If, through lowly birth and station, 

Thus thy modest graces shine, 
How would'st thou adorn my household, 

Could I make thee wholly mine ! 

"Much I may not boast of riches, — 
Mine a younger son's estate; 

And I brave a father's anger, 
Asking thee to share my fate. 



Adelaide's triumph. 141 

But a loving heart I bring thee, 

And, wilt thou its love repay, 
Hands to toil for thee I offer, 

And a mind to win my way." 

O, but then her courage tottered, 

And hot tears her eyelids wet, 
As new-springing Love with Duty 

In a doubtful conflict met ! 
How one little word could level 

All that barred her from his side ! 
But the word remained unspoken, 

And his proffer she denied. 

"Fare thee well!" he said, and parted, 

Fame or fortune to pursue ; 
And the light that with him vanished, 

Often, often did she rue. 
Yet, upon her hours of grieving, 

Peace would like a dove descend, 
When her own true heart she questioned, 

And found Conscience was her friend. 
16 



142 Adelaide's triumph. 

But a change was now impending 

In the maiden's outward lotj 
For her chastened soul no longer 

Showed the one corroding spot ' 
Bleached beneath the winds of trial, 

Washed by sorrow's clearing rain, 
On its heavenly-shining raiment 

Lay no trace of earthly stain. 

So when use had made her happy 

In her self- forgetful sphere, — 
When no sigh for earthly grandeur 

Wakened the regretful tear, — 
Smitten by a mortal illness 

Suddenly her mistress lay; 
And the maiden watched beside her, 

Ever fondly, night and day. 

But it pleased our heavenly Father, 
In his mercy, to dismiss 

Constance to a brighter region, 
To a world of purer bliss : 



Adelaide's triumph. 143 

And to Adelaide she whispered, 

Smiling with her latest breath, 
" We shall meet again, my sister : 

A sweet summoner is Death ! " 

When the bell had finished tolling, 

And the sod had spread its green 
Over all of form and feature 

Mortal eye had ever seen, — 
Where her flowers and birds seemed waiting 

In that consecrated room, 
Knelt the gray-haired Lord De Warrene, 

Knelt in solitary gloom. 

"O, my gentle child," he murmured, 

" Can I see thy face no more ? 
Little did my heart conjecture, 

Thou so soon wouldst go before! 
All my age might hope of comfort 

In thy fragile life was bound : 
Where shall now Aifection wander, 

Where a love like thine be found?" 



144 Adelaide's triumph. 

Trembling in each limb and fibre, 

Faltering as she slowly stept, 
Adelaide approached her father, 

Sank beside him as he wept; 
And ere he could know her present, 

Or could hear her timorous tread, 
She had placed the scroll before him, 

And all eagerly he read. 

With a cry of wild amazement, 

Suddenly he stood upright ; 
On the maiden gazed, and drew her 

Nearer, nearer to the light. 
" Child ! " he gasped, " thou bring' st a title 

Such as scrolls could not contain; 
In that smile thy mother liveth, 

In that face thy rights are plain ! " 

And with tears of tender transport, 
lie beheld her and embraced; 

Twined his fingers in her ringlets, 
Each familiar charm retraced. 



Adelaide's triumph. 145 

But when came the slow conception 

Of her trial's full extent, 
O'er and o'er again he clasped her, 

And with love was reverence blent. 

" O, how blest beyond deserving, 

Am I in this joy ! " he said ; 
" I, who questioned Heaven's disposal, 

I, who deemed all comfort fled ! 
How hath God's own hand repaid me 

The bereavement I deplore ! 
If he took an angel from me, 

'Twas a seraph to restore ! " 

Could another grace be added 

To the triumph of the maid, 
I might tell thee what befell her 

As the Lady Adelaide; 
How that belted earls and barons, 

High in honor and command, 
Came, with royal state to back them, 

And were suppliants for her hand; 



Adelaide's triumph. 

How no hope, though e'er so distant, 

Could the boldest of them gain ; 
When, at length, a youth unnoted 

Sued, and did not sue in vain ! 
And, while belted earl and baron 

Smothered as they might their gall, 
How the rumor was repeated, 

He had loved her first of all. 

But my tale is fitly ended. 

We may safely trust her now. 
Wealth and station cannot alter 

That serenely radiant brow. 
Sin may tempt and sorrow wound her, 

Still she'll conquer in the strife ; 
And the self-denying maiden 

Be transcended in the wife. 



147 



THE DRAMA'S RACE. 



SPOKEN BY MISS ELLEN TREE, AT THE PARK THEATRE. 



Thanks ! There is no illusion here : 
Wit, Wisdom, Beauty, all appear, 

And grace our house to-night ; — 
Still striving, as we do, to please, 
A rich requital, smiles like these — 

This fair inspiring sight ! 

Ah! as in boxes and in pit, 

A goodly company, ye sit, 

Are there no conjured shapes that flit 

Your fancy's gaze before? 
Shapes which this storied dome recalls, 
Which start from these half-conscious walls, 

Past pleasures to restore? 



148 the drama's race. 

In worthiest state, I see them rise — 
The brave, the beautiful, the wise, 

The guilty, and the good — 
The Drama's race ! They come, they pass, 
In crowds, o'er Memory's magic glass, — 

A mingled multitude! 

"Angels and ministers of grace 
Defend us ! " Is it Hamlet's face, 

Hamlet the Dane, I see? 
He bends his melancholy eyes 
On vacancy, and, hark ! he sighs, 

"To be, or not to be I" 

Indignant Hotspur rushes by, 

And " Mortimer ! " is still his cry — 

Nought can his rage restrain. 
Shylock gasps forth, " Is that the law?" 
Old Lear puts on his crown of straw; 

" Richard's himself again ! " 



the drama's race. 149 

Ah, Romeo ! Romeo ! is it thou ? 
Fair Juliet hears thy honeyed vow 

Beneath the moon's pale beam ; 
And lo ! Macbeth, with blood-stained hands ! 
And see where black Othello stands, 

" Perplexed in the extreme ! " 

" Run, run, Orlando ! " Rosalind 
Thy tributary verse shall find — 

" The inexpressive she ! " 
Fear not to tell her of thy flame ; 
And do not fail to carve her name 

Upon the nearest tree. 

" Farewell ! farewell ! " 'Tis Jaffier speaks ; 
And wretched Belvidera shrieks 

As only wretches can. 
Ha, Benedick ! thou'rt caught at last ! 
Fair Beatrice the net hath cast — 

Thou'lt be " the married man." 



150 THE DRAMA'S RACE. 

Lo, Brutus, with a fierce appeal, 
O'er lost Lucretia lifts the steel, 

And shouts, "No more be slaves!" 
And stern Virginius, pale and wild, 
Folds to his breast his darling child ; — 

Then, thus! — her honor saves! 

" Ho, Ion ! 'Tis thy father's life ! " 
He grasps the sacrificial knife, 

And seems transfixed with wonder ; 
And, as the fates of Argos roll 
Their lurid terrors o'er his soul, 

Exclaims, "Was not that thunder?" 

What an astounded group is seen, 
Where falls my Lady Teazle's screen — 

To none but Charles a joke ! 
There Julia mourns her fatal choice ; 
And, list! "That voice! 'Tis Clifford's voice, 

If ever Clifford spoke ! " 



THE DRAMA'S RACE. 151 

Hoping he don't "intrude," Paul Pry, 
With his umbrella, comes to spy 

What mischief may be done. 
Ha, Ollapod ! for human ills, 
Your jokes are better than your pills — 

"Good sir, I owe you one!" 



Pizarro, Douglas, William Tell, 
Pauline, Sir Giles — I know you well, 

As o'er the scene ye flock ; 
And Bardolph, with a cup of sack ; 
And there — "Well, go thy ways, old Jack," 

And fight "by Shrewsbury clock." 

But, hark ! the impatient prompter stamps ; — 
A hint I've been before the lamps 

A reasonable space; 
And, at that sound, the airy throng, 
Like guilty creatures, crowd along, 

And, fading, leave no trace. 



152 the drama's race. 

The spell is broken : — but, before 
I heed the summons, one word more, 

If patience yet endures : 
Till all its stars have disappeared, 
May still the Drama's cause be cheered 

By hands and lips like yours ! 



153 



FAREWELL ADDRESS 



SPOKEN BY MISS ELLEN TREE AT THE PARK THEATRE. 



The curtain falls — closed is the Drama's page : 
Why lingers Beatrice upon the stage? 
Away, illusion ! — this is not thy sphere — 
The sigh is faithful, and the grief sincere. 
Should utterance tremble, should the tear-drop start, 
They will but echo and o'erflow the heart. 

Three years, my friends — how brief they seem ! — 
have fled 
Since on your shore 'twas my good hap to tread ; 
And if some anxious fears were mine at first, 
How on my soul your liberal welcome burst ! 
Ye cheered my efforts — took me by the hand : 
No more was I a stranger in the land. 



154 FAREWELL ADDRESS. 

A stranger ! Why ? on every side I heard 
My native accents in each spoken word ; 
And every greeting which my toil beguiled 
Was from the " well of English undefined." 
The mighty poet, whose creations bright 
The Drama's spell evoked for you to-night, — 
Did I not find his memory and his strains 
Here as familiar as on Stratford's plains? 
Your sires and he one Saxon stock could claim, 
And ye with us partake his endless fame. 

Ah ! as the loiterer by some pleasant way, 
Though duty bid him haste, would fain delay, — 
Review the prospect beautiful — retrace 
Each sunbright feature and each shadowy grace, — 
So would I linger — so would I forget, 
It is, alas ! to part, that we have met. 

Yet, ere I go, desponding Memory asks, 
Is this the last of my too happy tasks? 
Shall I no more a scene like this behold, 
Or tread these boards, in your approval bold? 
Too strong the chance that it will e'en be so — 
Fate answers, "Ay!" but ah! Hope whispers, "No!'* 



FAREWELL ADDRESS. 155 

And yet, though mute the voice, and closed the scene ; 
Though oceans stretch, and tempests roar between; 
Whatever hues may mark my future lot, 
Still let me dream that I'm not all forgot; 
That Shakspeare's fair abstractions may restore 
A thought of her who once their trophies wore ; 
That Talfourd's pathos, Knowles's tragic art, 
Some wavering recollection may impart — 
A look, a tone, that sympathy impressed, 
That was the touch of nature to your breast. 

But heedless Time hath brought our parting near : 
Why do I still, superfluous, linger here? 
Ah ! think not ever an unreal part 
So tasked my powers, and filled my beating heart! 
I may not speak the thoughts that in it swell, — 
I can but say, kind, generous friends, farewell! 



DRAMATIC PIECES. 



DRAMATIC PIECES. 



THE CANDID CRITIC. 



CHARACTERS. 

Dionysius, King of Syracuse. 

Phlloxenus, A Poet and Critic. 

Alastor, Secretary to Dionysius. 

Phormio, An Athenian. 

Xanthe, Daughter of Philoxenus. 

Guards, Parasites, Executioners, fyc. 



SCENE I. 
The Palace Grounds in Syracuse. Enter Phormio. 

PHORMIO. 

A respite ! a reprieve ! The gods be thanked, 
I have escaped at last ! O, Phormio, Phormio ! 
Did Fortune snatch thee from the howling waves 
That gnash their white teeth on the rocks of Scylla, 



1G0 THE CANDID CRITIC. 

Or coil their giant tresses round Charybdis, 
To put thy patience to severer tests? 
O, which way can I fly from Syracuse? 
How rid me of the imminent infliction ? 
Enter Philoxenus. 
PHILOXENUS. 

Ho, Phormio! Is thy haste so very urgent, 
Thou canst not tarry for a friend's embrace? 

PHORMIO. 

Philoxenus! Indeed I'm glad to see thee. 

PHILOXENUS. 

And I to welcome thee to Syracuse. 
When didst leave Athens ? Who bore off the prizes 
At the Olympic games ? Thou'rt out of breath : 
Come, rest with me awhile beside this fountain. 

PHORMIO. 

Not there ! Not on the palace steps ! Remain ; — 
I shall be better instantly. O tyrant, 
Remorseless in thy rancor! 

PHILOXENUS. 

Not so loud ! 
Thy dulcet compliments may reach the ears 



THE CANDID CRITIC. 161 

Of Dionysius. More than two he owneth. 
Hast thou already felt his cruelty — 
Thou, an Athenian? 

PHORMIO. 

Ay, and yet am doomed 
To feel it more. O, torment most refined! 

PHILOXENUS. 

What ! hath he tried his newly-fashioned scourge 
Upon thy back ? 

PHORMIO. 

O, something worse than that ! 

PHILOXENUS. 

Say'st thou? Perhaps, then, he prescribed a bath 
Of molten lead : I've known it efficacious 
Id checking many troublesome eruptions. 

PHORMIO. 

No : that were honey-dew to what I've suffered. 

PHILOXENUS. 

Thou wast not crammed into a cask of spikes, 
And rolled down hill? 

PHORMIO. 

'Twere pastime, merry pastime, 

Compared with the extreme barbarity! 
11 



162 THE CANDID CRITIC. 

PHILOXENUS. 

Thy flesh has not been torn with red-hot pincers, 
Nor peeled in crimson ribbons by his engines; 
Thy limbs have not been stretched upon the rack, 
Nor thine eyes seared by plates of heated steel : — 
Which of his little toys of torture was it 
He chose for dalliance in his cheerful mood ? 

PHORMIO. 

Give thy imagination freer rein: 

Sees it nought further in the realm of horrors? 

PHILOXENUS. 

Indeed, I cannot guess thy punishment, 
Unless — but, no! there's life left in thee yet. 

PHORMIO. 

Unless what, would'st thou say? 

PHILOXENUS. 

I know of nothing 
Beyond these charming hospitalities, 
Unless he made thee hear his poetry. 

PHORMIO. 

Thou'st hit the mark! 

PHILOXENUS. 

My miserable friend ! 



THE CANDID CRITIC. 163 

PHORMIO. 

Ah me ! You poets have imagined tortures : — 

The pool of Tantalus, Ixion's wheel, 

Prometheus with the vulture at his vitals, 

Procrustes' bed, the bull of Phalaris — 

All these you may consider quite ingenious ; 

But, pshaw ! they're bubbles, straws, and thistle-down, 

To what your Dionysius has invented. 

Gods ! he did make me hear his tragedy — 

Tragic in nothing save the dire infliction ! 

With all my nerves braced to the serious task, 

I sat and listened ; but, before the scroll 

Was half completed, such an earthquake yawn 

Burst from me, that the wordy tyrant started, 

And shouted for his guards. As they rushed in, 

Alastor, the young scribe, in hurried whispers, 

Suggested an excuse that saved my life : 

Kneeling before the monarch, I protested 

That the strange pathos of the well-wrought scene 

Had, by its art, so won upon my senses, 

Most inadvertently I groaned aloud. 

Ha, ha! Forgetting all his guilty fears 



164 THE CANDID CRITIC. 

Of ambushed cut-throats and disguised assassins, 
He raised me in his arms, and kissed my cheek 
Nor would he suffer me to quit the palace 
Till I had promised to return to-night 
To hear the rest of his vile tragedy. 
My friend, shall I survive it? 

PHILOXENUS. 

Thou wilt have 
At least a partner in thy misery : 
Know that I too am summoned to the palace, 
Doubtless to be a victim with thyself; 
But, should this royal metromaniac ask 
My poor opinion, frankly will I give it. 

PHORMIO. 

Nay, thou would'st only jeopardize thy life : — 
His weakness 'tis to be esteemed a poet ; 
And, to sink irony, 'tis surely better 
That he should murder metaphors on parchment 
Than stain the block with massacres of men. 
So, tell him, if thou wilt, that he's no soldier ; 
That he knows nothing of the art of war, 
Nothing of all the useful arts of peace, 



THE CANDID CRITIC. 165 

And that he daily, hourly, violates 

His duties to the gods, the state, the people; 

But do not — do not criticize his verses. 

PHILOXENUS. 

Or I'll be silent or avow the truth. 
Wilt thou be at the palace? 

PHORMIO. 

For thy sake 
Will I be there. Heighho! 

PHILOXENUS. 

Nay, smile, my friend ! 
Great sorrows have their lessons; and the gods 
Would teach us, by this dispensation, patience. 

[Exeunt. 
Enter Alastor and Xanthe. 
ALASTOR. 

There goes thy father, Xanthe! I implore thee, 
Go try once more to change his stubborn purpose. 
Tell him the king himself approves our nuptials, 
And promises to grace them with his presence. 

XANTHE. 

Already once to-day I've sued to him ; 
But neither tears nor blandishments availed. 



166 THE CANDID CRITIC. 

ALASTOR. 

Obdurate parent ! 

XANTHE. 

Do not call him so ! 
In all things is he liberal and most kind. 

ALASTOR. 

O! thou may'st think him kind — in all things kind 

Kind in his opposition to our nuptials ; 

But I, who love not in so cool a fashion, 

Chafe at this unexplained impediment — 

Nay, sweet! I meant not to be harsh. Look up! 

XANTHE. 

Why wilt thou vex me with thy doubts, Alastor? 

ALASTOR. 

Why not remove at once all cause for doubt? 
Become in truth my own, without regard 
To thy allegiance elsewhere? 

XANTHE. 

No, Alastor, 
Not for my life would I deceive my father ; 
For, since I lost my mother, he hath been 
Doubly a parent to me, and I owe him 
Double devotion, gratitude, obedience. 



THE CANDID CRITIC. 167 

ALASTOR. 

Canst tell me wherein lies his enmity 

To our alliance? Am I stamped by nature 

With any vile deformity of person ? 

Have I disgraced my name, or marred my fortune? 

Am I in any way unworthy of thee? 

XANTHE. 

No, no ! Thou'rt all that honor could desire. 

ALASTOR. 

Then, say, what is this Pelion piled on Ossa, 
That towers between our fates ? 

XANTHE. 

My father tells me, 
That 'tis not to thyself he has objection, 
But to thy occupation. 

ALASTOR. 

Occupation ! 
Chief secretary to the king himself, 
And yet the obstacle my occupation? 

XANTHE. 

Wert thou, he says, chief cook, or groom, or scullion, 
So that we loved, he'd not oppose our union ; 



1GS THE CANDID CRITIC. 

But that to be the tyrant's crudest agent, 
The hired transcriber of his fluent docrnrerel, 

DO ' 

Is a disgrace, in which he cannot share. 
There ! I've dared tell thee all. 

ALASTOR. 

Thy father is — 
Ah ! 'tis a hinderance so delectable, 
And thou proclaim'st it with such gravity, 
That laughter gets the better of vexation. 

XANTHE. 

Thou tak'st it merrily. 

ALASTOR. 

Be not offended ; 
For I rejoice, with all my heart, at finding 
The obstacle not insurmountable. 
Go to thy father, Xanthe ; and make known, 
That, for thy dearest sake, I'll straight resign 
My present post; and, should propitious fate 
Break a groom's neck, or suffocate a scullion, 
Or give some cook a surfeit that shall end him, 
I'll instantly apply to Dionysius 
For — for promotion. 



THE CANDID CRITIC. 169 

XA.NTHE. 

Nay, I'll plead once more 
In our behalf, nor urge that hard condition. 
Farewell, Alastor. 

ALASTOR. 

May the gods protect thee ! 
Farewell, true heart ! Bring back a gracious answer. 

[Exeunt severally. 



SCENE II. 

An Apartment in the Palace. Diosysius seated, perusing 
Scroll. Present, Parasites and Guards. 

dioxysius. 
Ah, here's true inspiration ! Dorian numbers, 
That charm the ear with limpid melody, 
And shining thoughts forged in poetic fire ! 
I marvel not that the Athenian youth, 
Raised on the pinions of my soaring fancy, 
Was terror-stricken at his exaltation, 
And vented all unconsciously his wonder. 
Here is the verse that so inwrapped his soul. 



170 THE CANDID CRITIC. 

FIRST PARASITE. 

Is it, most mighty liege, but mightier poet, 
That passage which thy majesty vouchsafed 
Graciously to rehearse, the other day, 
Where Polymestor, of his sight deprived, 
Heaps curses on the ruthless dames of Troy? 
O, that indeed was beautiful ! — most grand ! 
Methought I never heard a more divine — 
A more — Your majesty ! — 

DIONYSIUS. 

Dolt ! dotard ! driveller ! 
By all the gods forsaken and accursed ! 
'Twas from Euripides — that feeble passage : — 
I but compared it with the imprecation 
Which, in my poem, I make Ajax utter 
Against the sons of Atreus. Tasteless blockhead ! 
Since thou'rt so charmed with Polymestor's ravings, 
Thou shalt partake his doom. Ho! guards! The 

quarries ! 
There let the varlet study to distinguish 
Between Euripides and Dionysius. 

[First Parasite is dragged aicay. 



THE CANDID CRITIC. 171 

SECOND PARASITE. 

In sooth, my liege, thy sentence was too lenient; 
But 'tis thy failing — clemency. 

DIONYSUS. 

Be silent ! 
Who asked thy comments, babbler, on my failings? 
Was ever king so hedged by fleering fools ? 

Enter Phormio and Philoxevus. 
Aha ! my young Athenian ! Give you welcome ! 
Philoxenus, we must be better friends. 
Be seated, gentlemen. The feast is ready — 
Ambrosial meats — an intellectual feast. 

PHILOXENUS, (aside.) 
Would that I were an intellectual ostrich ! 

PHORMIO. 

My liege, the prisoner whom we just encountered 
Besought our intercession — 

DIONYSIUS. 

Let him pass ! 
Bceotia never bred a bigger ass. 

PHORMIO. 

He but entreats the priceless privilege 
Of listening to thy poem. 



t 



, 172 THE CANDID CRITIC. 

PHILOXENUS. 

After which, 
We do not doubt, my liege, he'll die content. 

DIONYSIUS. 

Bring back the culprit : tell him he is pardoned. 

PHORMIO, (aside to Philoxencs.) 
The invention was well-timed. 

PHILOXENUS, (aside to Phormio.) 

Remorseless Phormio ! 
Would'st thou reserve him for a cruder doom? 

FIRST PARASITE, (entering and kneeling to the King.) 
If j gracious master ! 

DIONYSIUS. 

Rise ! Thy wish is granted. 
Philoxenus, you've never heard our " Ajax," 
If I remember ? 

PHILOXENUS. 

You forget, my liege : 
I was a listener at the royal theatre 
On its first presentation. 

DIONYSIUS. 

There 'twas murdered, 
Unconscionably murdered by the players. 



THE CANDID CRITIC. 173 

The rascals ! I improved their elocution 
Before they quitted Syracuse. 

PHILOXENUS. 

And how? 

DIONYSIUS. 

Cut out the tongue of every one of them. 
Didst ever have a tragedy performed 1 
Be happy, in thy inexperience, then! 
More woful than the woe of Niobe 
Was it, to see the children of my brain 
Dismembered, mangled, strangled, torn and swallowed, 
By those word-butchers ! Maledictions on them ! 
Great Nemesis ! I let them off too lightly. 

FIRST PARASITE. 

Indeed, my liege, 'twould only have been justice 
To have tried the new-made engine on their limbs ; — 
That would have served them after their own fashion. 

DIONYSIUS. 

Well thought of! But, Philoxenus, now tell me, 
What thought you of the play? 

PHORMIO, (aside to Philoxenus.) 

For Xanthe's sake, 
Be prudent now. 



174 THE CANDID CRITIC. 

DIONYSIUS. 

Which passage pleased thee best? 

PHILOXENUS. 

The closing one, my liege. 

DIONYSIUS. 

Ay, that was fair ; 
But which didst think most moving? 

PHILOXENUS. 

'Twas all moving. 
{Aside.) And yet I sat it through ! 

DIONYSIUS. 

Indeed, I'm glad 
It pleased thee. 

PHILOXENUS. 

Said I that? 
PHORMIO, (aside.) 

Restrain thy tongue. 

DIONYSIUS. 

How! Pleased it not? Speak out, Philoxenus! 
I prize judicious censure. Think me not 
One of those tender-skinned, conceited scribblers, 
Who, prurient for praise, recoil and smart 
Under the touch of blame. 



THE CANDID CRITIC. 175 

PHILOXENUS. 

That's wise — that's royal! 
For, let this be admitted : the true poet 
Carries the consciousness of his high gift 
Like an impenetrable shield before him. 
He knows his oracles are from the gods, 
And, like the gods, immutable, immortal, 
Albeit the tardy age receive them not. 
What though the laugh of bigotry and hate, 
The taunt of scurrile infamy and falsehood, 
The sneer of worldly-wise expediency, 
Fall on his ears? The echo is not heard 
In the serene seclusion of his soul ! 
'Tis the false prophet whom the critics reach: 
Never a true one by their shafts was wounded. 

DIONYSIUS. 

My thoughts, adroitly uttered ! Tell me now, — 
Now that I know to value thy opinion, — 
Wast thou not charmed with " Ajax " ? 

PHILOXENUS. 

Frankly, no. 

DIONYSIUS. 

Dost jest? 



176 THE CANDID CRITIC. 

PHILOXENUS. 

The gods forbid, so great a king 
Should be a poet ! 

DIONYSIUS. 

Insolent! Thy life — 
PHORMio, (to Philoxexds.) 
Rash one ! Thou'rt lost ! 

FIRST PARASITE. 

Ho! Democles and guards! 
Seize on this churlish traitor. 

PHILOXENUS. 

Why, thou viper ! 
Art thou already warm enough to sting? 

DIONYSIUS. 

No poet! I no poet! Democles! 
Conduct this carping rebel to the quarries. 

PHILOXENUS. 

The quarries ! Are they always good, my liege, 
In such distempers? 

DIONYSIUS. 

What distempers, sirrah ? 

PHILOXE.M i, 

A sort of indigestion of the mind — 



THE CANDID CRITIC. 177 

A state in which the judgment cannot stomach 
What's put upon it. 

DIONYSIUS. 

Drag him from my sight! 

PHILOXENUS. 

And wilt thou then be any more a poet? 

DIONYSIUS. 

Away ! No words ! Now, Phormio, thou shalt hear 
The rest of " Ajax." 

PHILOXENUS, (to the Guards.) 

Quick, quick to the quarries ! 
[Exit with Guards. 

PHORMIO. 

My liege, he's mad ! Forgive him ; spare my friend ! 
[He kneels to Dionysius as the Scene closes. 



SCENE III. 

A Dungeon. Enter Philoxenus. Two Executioners, unper- 
ceived of him, follow. 

PHILOXENUS. 

Could all poor poets thus confute their critics, 
12 



178 THE CANDID CRITIC. 

Dulness might drone, unpricked, among her poppies. 

Good sooth! here's room enough to criticize, — 

And matter too, — with very patient listeners. 

The ceiling is a thought too nigh the floor; 

The architecture of a style too heavy ; 

A mouldy moisture hangs upon the air, 

If air it may be called by courtesy. 

A caviller might find even other faults; 

But, when I think on all that I've escaped, 

This dungeon smiles a welcome. Who approach? 

Ah, worthy sirs ! I knew not you were present. 

FIRST EXECUTIONER. 

A merry knave ! Eh, comrade ? 

SECOND EXECUTIONER. 

'Tis a marvel 
To see a man smile here. Art in thy senses? 

PHILOXENUS. 

Ay, sir, and they in me. Canst say as much? 
Pardon me — am I right ? — your gentle craft — 
Is it not — are ye not the executioners? 

FIRST EXECUTIONER. 

The same, sir, at your service. 



THE CANDID CRITIC. 179 

SECOND EXECUTIONER. 

We shall be 
Better acquainted soon. 

PHILOXENUS. 

Ha ! that's a comfort. 
How long have ye pursued your cheerful calling? 

SECOND EXECUTIONER. 

More than ten years. 

FIRST EXECUTIONER. 

And I — let me consider ! 
When had we the great plague in Syracuse? 
I came in with the plague. 

PHILOXENUS. 

A worthy colleague! 
Well, ye must be no bunglers at your trade 
By this time, gentle sirs. I'll warrant me, 
In bringing down an axe upon the block, 
Tying a noose, or nailing to the rack, 
Ye've ne'er had rivals; — ye can do it deftly? 

FIRST EXECUTIONER. 

Ah! thou may'st say it. I defy the man 
Can do those jobs more neatly. 



180 THE CANDID CRITIC. 

SECOND EXECUTIONER. 

Hold thy tongue! 
Bah ! Thou'rt a scandal to the craft — a botcher ! 

FIRST EXECUTIONER. 

Dost hear the jealous rogue? Go to! go to! 
Thou'rt a mere boy. 

SECOND EXECUTIONER. 

When had I to strike twice 
At a man's neck ! O ! thou'rt a matchless workman ! 

FIRST EXECUTIONER. 

Fellow! I scorn thy malice. There was cause 
Why I should miss that aim: the light was dim. 

SECOND EXECUTIONER. 

Thy eyes, more like. 

FIRST EXECUTIONER. 

Fellow, I say thou liest! 

PHILOXENUS. 

Nay, gentlemen, this generous strife must end. 
Ye both are artists — 'tis a pride to know you; — 
Artists, I say — the first in your vocation, 
Though your vocation may not be the first ' 
Ye do abhor all tyros — all pretenders, 



THE CANDID CKITIC. 181 

Devoid of skill and genius. Yesterday, 

The king's chief barber fell beneath your axe, 

For rashly boasting that the royal weasand 
Was at his mercy daily. 

FIRST EXECUTIONER. 

Marry, I 
Took care of him. A very pretty job ! 
A handsome throat he had — made a good mark. 

PHILOXENUS. 

Sir, spoken like an artist ! Hear me now : 
I am an artist equally — a poet. 

SECOND EXECUTIONER. 

We could have sworn thou wast no honest man. 

FIRST EXECUTIONER. 

Did I not tell you 'twas a desperate knave? 

PHILOXENUS. 

Well, listen to my case: your lord, the king, 
Though neither born nor bred to my vocation, — 
Without that natural gift no toil can lend, 
Or that acquaintance study may supply, — 
Attempts the poet's function, and then asks 
My frank opinion of his verses. I 



182 THE CANDID CRITIC. 

Tell him I like them not : for which offence, 

Behold me here ! Now put it to yourselves : 

What had the king essayed your handicraft, 

And, emulous to wield the axe like you, 

Hacked off my head, — then asked, " Was't not well 

done?" — 
Would ye've said, Ay? 

FIRST EXECUTIONER. 

Not were he twice a king! 

SECOND EXECUTIONER. 

No! Each man to his trade, is still my maxim. 

FIRST EXECUTIONER. 

Tis a shrewd knave. Well, well ; enough of prating ! 

SECOND EXECUTIONER, (aside to PHILOXENUS.) 

I like thy humor; — view me as thy friend. 
'Twill be thy privilege to choose the arm 
That is to — 

PHILOXENUS. 

Yes, I fully comprehend. 
SECOND EXECUTIONER, (aside to Philoxf.nus.) 
Give me the chance, and I'll outdo myself. 
Thou shalt be featly dealt with;— thou shalt see 



THE CANDID CRITIC. 183 

A marvellous nice stroke — no butchery, 
But smooth, clean, faultless headsmanship. 

PHILOXENUS. 

Good sir, 
How shall I show my gratitude? Thy claims 
Shall be considered. 

FIRST EXECUTIONER, {aside to Philoxenus.) 

If your head 
Is to come off, consider me your man. 
Marry, 'twill do your heart good when you see 
How dexterously I'll do it. You'll confess 
That I'm the better artist. 

PHILOXENUS. 

You o'erwhelm me. 

[Exeunt Executioners. 

Well, by the gods, I hold in reverence more 

A skilful headsman than a charlatan ! 

O, 'tis the curse of every liberal art, 

There still are vile pretenders who defame it. 

In painting, what mere daubers do we see, 

Who, born to guide the plough, mislead the pencil ! 

In music, what deluded sciolists 



184 " THE CANDID CRITIC. 

Evoke strange discords and tormented sounds 

From chords which, smitten by responsive fingers, 

Give up the very soul of harmony ! 

And how art thou, divinest Poesy, 

Shamed and molested by the wretched herd, 

Who, unordained, profane thy sacred temples, 

And claim to utter oracles of thine, 

Mistaking the foul tumors of their brains 

For a god's impregnation ! Scribbling fools, 

Innocent cheats, and facile poetasters ! 

O, would they quit the pen and grasp the spade, 

Apollo should not curse, but Flora bless ! 

Enter Xanthe. 
My child ! thy footstep was so feathery light, 
Methought, a moment, 'twas thy mother's spirit, 
With sainted beauty, come to light my dungeon. 

XANTHE. 

W T hatever doom may be for thee reserved, 
Behold me here to share it! 

PHILOXENT m. 

Tremble not. 
I cannot think the king will do me harm ; 



THE CANDID CRITIC. 185 

But, should capricious cruelty impel him 
To prematurely quench life's sinking taper, 
Know, that it was not with a serious purpose, 
I've interposed objections to the choice 
Of thy surrendered heart. 

XANTHE. 

Ah, do not turn 
My thoughts from thy great peril on myself! 
Another time, those words had made me start 
With a too vivid joy ; but now, alas ! 
They bring no consolation ; — I should hate 
My own ungrateful spirit if they did. 
Enter Executioners. 
SECOND EXECUTIONER. 

'Tis the king's order ; — we must e'en obey it. 

FIRST EXECUTIONER. 

Poor fellow ! Well, come, master ! 

XANTHE. 

Who are these? 

PHILOXENUS. 

Command thyself — the executioners ! 



1^6 THE CANDID CRITIC. 

FIRST EXECUTIONER. 

We both are sorry for thee, master poet; 
But the king's will is final. 

PHILOXENUS. 

Do ye bear 
His written mandate ? 

SECOND EXECUTIONER. 

Ay, sir ; more's the pity ! 

XANTHE. 

Away ! ye grim and lying murderers ! 

Ye shall hew off these limbs before ye reach him. 

PHILOXENUS. 

Let me behold your order. 

SECOND EXECUTIONER. 

If you doubt it, 
Read for yourself. Marry, 'tis plain as daylight. 

PHILOXENUS, (reading aside.) 
M And let Philoxenus appear to-night 
At the king's banquet." (Laughs.) 

XANTHE. 

Ah, that frantic laughter ! 
'Tis even more terrible than tears. 



THE CANDID CRITIC. 187 

PHILOXENUS. 

A summons 
To attend the king ! These gentlemen, my child, 
Are wags in their small way. Unmannered caitiffs ! 
Why did ye palter with us? 

FIRST EXECUTIONER. 

Be not angry. 
We gladly would have served you, master poet ; 
But then his majesty, you know, is wilful. 

PHILOXENUS. 

Well, I can pardon you the disappointment 

With all my heart. And now, good sirs, farewell ! 

Nay, we must tear ourselves from your embraces. 

[Exit with Xanthe. 
FIRST EXECUTIONER. 

'Tis always thus our choicest customers 
Find a reprieve. 

SECOND EXECUTIONER. 

Bear up, bear up, old fellow ! 
Fear not the king will let our axes rust. 

[Exeunt. 



1*"* THE CANDID CRITIC. 

SCENE IV. 

The King's Banquetting-Room. — Enter Phormio and Alastor. 

PHORMIO. 

Art thou assured the king has pardoned him ? 

ALASTOR. 

Ay, he is bidden to the evening banquet ; 
And, sir, as thou'rt his friend, I do implore thee 
Counsel him nevermore to criticize 
The monarch's verses. 

PHORMIO. 

I shall venture much 
To shield him from imprudence. 

ALASTOR. 

Fare thee well. 
[Eiit. 

PHORMIO. 

And yet I fear, in spite of chains and dungeons, 
His thoughts will spurn disguise. The gods themselves 
Could not extort the praise his heart denied ; — 
Will he then stoop to flatter Dionys 



THE CANDID CRITIC. 189 

Enter Philoxenus. 
PHILOXENUS. 

Wha$! do I see thee, Phormio, and alive? 

PHORMIO. 

Beware ! thou'st found it somewhat hazardous 
To sport with tigers counterfeiting tameness ; — 
A scratch, a look may rouse the bloody instinct 
That marks thee for its prey — and so, be prudent. 

PHILOXENUS. 

I seek not this encounter. May the gods 
Desert me when I fawn upon a tyrant! 
My friend, I loathe hypocrisy. 

PHORMIO. 

Not less 
Is my aversion to it; but, alas! 
We all, in a degree, are hypocrites, — 
Always deceiving others or ourselves. 
Some thoughts concealed we not from our best friends, 
They'd be our friends no longer ; — looked we closely 
To our own derelictions, — did we not, 
With flattering fantasies and dear delusions, ' 
Juggle our ready hearts, — we'd soon abhor 
The life we cling to. 



190 THE CANDID CRITIC. 

PHILOXENUS. 

Phormio, thou hast studied 
Among the Sophists, and canst aptly wield 
The two-edged weapons of that specious school. 
The king approaches. 

PHORMIO. 

Now let caution rule thee 
In look and word. 

PHILOXENUS. 

I'll not forget myself. 
Enter Dionysids, Alastor, Xanthe, Parasites, fyc. 
DIONYSIUS. 

Philoxenus, sit here at our right hand, 
And pledge us in this cup. 

PHILOXENUS. 

Most thankfully. 

DIONYSII S. 

What news, Sir Poet, bring' st thou from the quarries? 

PHILOXENUS. 

Incredible, my liege ! The headsmen languish 
For want of occupation. 

DIONYSII -s. 

Ha! that's bitter. 



THE CANDID CRITIC. 191 

PHILOXENUS. 

The sunshine of the court shall sweeten me. 

DIONYSIUS. 

What if we had consigned thee to the block 
For thy unmeasured rudeness ? 

PHILOXENUS. 

There had been 
One man the less in Syracuse, who dared 
To speak the truth to all men at all times. 

DIONYSIUS. 

A prodigy at court, I do confess ! 

But, come : they tell me thou'st a taste proficient 

Tn poetry and art; and here's a passage — 

'Tis very brief — which above all I prize, 

In my great poem. Read it. 

philoxenus, (aside.) 

Cruel fate! 
PHORMIO, (aside to Philoxenus.) 
Now, if thou canst applaud not, pray be silent. 

[Philoxenus reads in dumb show from a scroll 
which Dionysius hands him. 
Beautiful ! Is it not, Philoxenus 1 
(Aside,) Say, Yes : that little word may make thy fortune. 



192 THE CANDID CRITIC. 

DIONYSIUS. 

Do those lines please thee? Speak, Philoxenus! 
Now for thy frank opinion ! 

PHILOXENUS. 

Are thy guards 
Within there? 

DIONYSIUS. 

What, ho ! guards ! 

[Tlie Guards come for tea id. 
PHILOXENUS, (to the Guards.) 

I pray you, lead me 
Back to the quarries. 

PHORMIO. 

Now thou'rt lost, indeed. 

FIRST PARASITE. 

Seize the disloyal churl! He must not live 
After such insolence. 

SECOND PARASITE. 

Death to the knave ! 
Torture and death ! 

XANTHE. 

Ah, no, sirs ! he's my father ! 
Urge not such desperate penalties. 



THE CANDID CRITIC. 193 

ALASTOR. 

The king, 
Kind sirs, is still a king ; he does not ask 
Any of your dictation. 

FIRST PARASITE. 

By the gods, 
I cannot quietly stand by and hear 
Mv sovereign liege insulted, nor defend him. 

DIONYSIUS. 

Thy sovereign liege, fool ! can defend himself. 
Ye forward brawlers, leave the royal presence ! 
Leave Syracuse, forever ! Are ye gone ? 

[Exeunt Parasites. 

And now, Philoxenus, we must devise 

Some punishment for thee, albeit I fear 

Thou'rt quite incorrigible. Since the quarries 

Have failed to make thee pliant, I must try 

Severer measures. Xanthe and Alastor, 

If tell-tale eyes speak truly, in your hearts 

Already are ye wedded : lo, I join 

Your hands in nuptial union ! There's thy sentence, 

Philoxenus ! 

13 



194 THE CANDID CRITIC. 

PIIILOXENUS. 

Magnanimous avenger ! 
Great Dionysius ! With surprise and joy 
I'm all confounded ! Why not always, thus, 
With clemency o'erwhelm the offender's soul? 
O, is not gratitude a sweeter draught 
Than vengeance ever tasted ? 

DIONYSIUS. 

Rise, my friends ! 
Athenian, rise ! We would not have thee think 
Mercy so rare a mood with Dionysius. 
Now, for the banquet! — But, a moment, stay! 
Philoxenus, in truth, canst thou discern 
No merit in my "Ajax"? Can I write 
Poetry, think you? 

PIIILOXENUS. 

No. But thou canst act it ; 
And that is nobler. 

DIONYSIUS. 

Then am I content. 
Curtain falls. 



195 



THE LAMPOON 



Present, Victor. Enter Pedrillo, with a Newspaper. 
VICTOR. 

How now, Pedrillo? Pr'ythee, what's the matter, 
That thus you tramp the room, and chafe, and pant, 
As if to madness baited ? 

PEDRILLO. 

Look at that ; 
And wonder at my equanimity ! 

VICTOR. 

A very Stoic, truly ! mild as moonbeams, 
Reluctant as gun-cotton to take fire, 
And quiet as a ribbon in a whirlwind ! 
Patience personified ! 

PEDRILLO. 

Read that, I say ! 



19(5 THE LAMPOON. 

VICTOR. 

An if you roar so loudly, my Pedrillo, 

You'll wake the watchman snoring on the doorstep. 

Compose yourseF 

PEDRILLO. 

I shall go mad indeed ! 
What! you have seen it — read it — laughed at it — 
Retailed it, at the club, as a good joke ! 
But, as the moon 's above us, I'll have vengeance ! 

VICTOR. 

Well done ! The action and the word well suited ! 
How such a climax would bring down the bravos ! 
Othello, Hotspur, Gloster — say, what part 
Shall be selected for your first appearance? 

PEDRILLO. 

Torture ! I thought you were my friend. Farewell ! 

\ H TOR. 

Stay, till you prove me otherwise. Explain : 

What direful, strange affliction hath o'erwhelmed you ? 

Have you been plundered, cuffed, knocked down, and 

stamped on } 
Perhaps your uncle's dead, and, in his will, 



THE LAMPOON. 197 

Has left you but a halter? No? Has Laura 
Eloped with that long-haired, black-whiskered bandit, 
Count Loferini? 

PEDRILLO. 

Pah ! he's her abhorrence. 
Read — read that paragraph in that vile print ! 
Behold me dragged before a grinning public ; 
Pointed at, squibbed, traduced, and ridiculed — 
Made the town's butt ; the mockery of my friends ! 
'Sdeath! I'll be no man's butt! The lying caitiff! 
The inky cutthroat! The pen-stabbing footpad! 
The paltering, prying, prostituting pander ! 
I'll have his ears or his apology! 

VICTOR. 

Bah ! Give me a regalia. Can it be 
Abuse from such a one can stir your choler? 
Wait till the blackguard praises you, and then, 
Curse, if you please, the fellow's impudence. 

PEDRILLO. 

What ! shall I take no notice of the knave 
And his base lies? 



198 THE LAMPOON. 

VICTOR. 

By all means notice him, 
If you would flatter. Challenge — flog — demand 
Instant retraction — sue him for a libel; — 
So may his aims be answered, and the kicks 
Of a true gentleman may do him honor, 
As royalty dubs knighthood — with a blow! 

PEDRILLO. 

Would you not have me show a due resentment? 

VICTOR. 

Tell him his sting is felt, and he'll rejoice : 
Let it strike harmless on the triple mail 
Of conscious honor ; and the baffled viper 
Will writhe and hiss, to find his venom wasted. 

PEDRILLO. 

Ah ! but the public scorn ! 

VICTOR. 

The public scorn ! 
Tell me what scorn the public can inflict, 
Which, if unmerited, an honest man 
Cannot repay tenfold ? The public scorn ! 
O paroxysm of most insane conceit, 



THE LAMPOON. 199 

To think a ribald gazetteer's worst spite 
Could pall upon your head the public scorn — 
Could raise you half an inch above the mass, 
For public contemplation! Ah, my friend, 
Time will reverse thy telescope; and objects, 
Which strike thee now as monstrous, will appear 
Ridiculously dwarfish : it will teach thee 
That, in this jostling, struggling, whirling world, 
The most notorious are but little known, 
The observed of all observers little seen, 
The loftiest low, the noisiest little heard; 
And that attacks like this, conceived in envy, — 
False, flippant, venal, venomous, and vulgar, — 
By the judicious are at once despised, 
By the unthinking are at once forgotten. 
O, shallower than the ostrich's device 
Who buries in the desert sand his eyes, 
That no one may discern him, is the folly, 
Which could persuade you that the public gaze, 
From the innumerable concerns of life, 
Was turned by this frail slander on yourself! 
So, never fear to walk the street to-morrow : — 



~<)0 THE LAMPOON. 

The boys will not hoot after you ; the ladies 

Will not ejaculate as you pass by. 

My life upon it, you will go unharmed, 

Uupersecuted. But I'll flout no more ; 

Though, sooth to say, this sensitive alarm, 

This prurient shyness, and unmeasured anger, 

Spring merely from egregious self-conceit, 

Or grosser ignorance. Yet have I known 

Mistakes as marvellous — have seen a man — 

A high-souled, honorable, valiant one — 

Sickened and blasted by a slanderous breath. 

And I have witnessed, too, a sadder sight — 

A maiden in the bloom of youth and beauty, 

And good as fair, and innocent as gifted, 

By the same pestilence struck down and killed ; 

While he, the spotted wretch, who did the murders, 

Was — O, the puniest of all creeping things! 

The press ! What is that terrifying engine 

In hands of fools and knaves? An empty scarecrow! 

A sword of lath! a pop-gun! a tin trumpet! 

O, piteous the delusion, that could fancy 



THE LAMPOON. 201 

The minds of men, of veritable men, 
Were swayed by such impostures ! 

PEDRILLO. 

Are they not 1 

VICTOR. 

No! Dupes and fools may be; — for such I care not : 
Their good esteem is worthless as their hate ! 

PEDRILLO. 

True, every word ! You have prevailed, my friend; — 
The smart is over, and the anger vanished. 
Henceforth, these slight and slimy paper-hoppers 
Shall less annoy than that superior insect, 
The shrill cicada of our summer pathways, 
Which harmless springs before us from the grass, 
Sinks at our feet, and straightway is forgotten. 



NOTES. 



Page 67. Gonello. 
This is a true story, Gonello, the son of a glover, in 
Florence, was born between the years 1390 and 1400. While 
still a young man, he was received into the service of Ni- 
colo the Third, Marquis of Ferrara, who installed him as his 
Fool, and became so much attached to him, that he sur- 
rounded him with favors, and even consulted him, sometimes, 
in state affairs. The traits of Gonello's character, and the 
events of his history and death, as I have metrically de- 
scribed them, are almost literally accordant with the histor- 
ical account. He was convicted of leze-majesti, inasmuch as 
he had laid violent hands on his sovereign; was seized and 
punished in the manner narrated in the poem. The marquis 
ordered a pompous funeral ; nor was any circumstance omit- 
ted that could evince his respect for the memory of the 
jester. The life of Gonello, forming a considerable volume, 
was written by one Bartolomeo del Uomo. 

Page 78. The Martyr of the Arena. 
In the year of our Lord 404, a young Asiatic monk, 
named Telemachus, lost his life in a generous attempt to 



204 



NOTES. 



prevent the combat of the gladiators, in the amphitheatre at 
Rome, lie had stepped into the arena to separate the com- 
batants, when the spectators, surprised and exasperated at his 
interruption of the brutal exhibition, overwln lined him with 
a shower of stones. But from that time forth the human 
sacrifices of the amphitheatre were abolished. In allusion 
to the fate of Telemachus, Gibbon, with more acrimony 
than truth, remarks, " Yet no church has been dedicated, 
no altar has been erected, to the only monk who died a 
martyr to the cause of humanity." I have no especial par- 
tiality for monks, but history repeatedly gives the lie to 
Gibbon's assertion. It shows to what a discreditable extent 
of recklessness he could be carried by his prejudices, where 
his choice lay between an implied compliment to Christian- 
ity and a misrepresentation of facts. 

Page 83. Woodhnll. 
General Nathaniel Woodhull was born at Mastic, Long 
Island, in 1722, and was engaged in several gallant actions, 
during the war of the American revolution. At the time of 
the invasion of Long Island by the royal forces, in 1776, he 
was overtaken at Jamaica, with two or three companions, 
by a detachment of the seventeenth regiment of British dra- 
goons, and the seventy-first regiment of infantry. He gave 
up his sword in token of surrender ; but the subordinate 
officer, who first approached, ordered him to say, " God 
save the king." This Woodhull refused to do; for which 
the officer struck him severely over the head with his sword ; 
and of the effects of the wound Woodhnll eventually died. 



NOTES. 205 

Page 89. The Death of Warren. 
" DnJce et decorum est pro patria mori" was the reply 
of Warren to the friends who tried to dissuade hira from 
exposing his person at the battle of Bunker Hill. 

Page 91. He beheld Cornwallis yield. 

Washington, though present at the surrender at York- 
town, deputed General Lincoln to receive the sword of 
Lord Cornwallis. This was done in a retaliatory spirit. 
When the Americans capitulated at Charleston, Cornwallis, 
instead of receiving Lincoln's sword himself, slightingly di- 
rected him to deliver it to Colonel St. Leger. The affront 
thus offered to one of his favorite officers was not forgotten 
by Washington ; and when the appropriate time came, he 
resented it, by meting out a similar measure of indignity to 
his lordship. 

My authority for this anecdote is my kinsman, the late 
Major Winthrop Sargent, in whose mental custody it could 
hardly have remained for a series of years had it not been 
true. Major Sargent was major of artillery at the battle of 
Brandy wine, September 11th, 1777, and adjutant-general at 
the terrible battle of the Miami Villages, November 4th, 
1791. On both occasions he was wounded — on the latter, 
severely. He shared the privations of our army at Valley 
Forge, and was one of a delegation sent by Washington to 
make a representation of them to the Congress, at Philadelphia. 
On the consummation of our independence, Major Sargent 
contemplated pursuing his military career in Europe ; and 



MS NOTES. 

Washington transmitted through Genera Knox the follow- 
ing certificate: "I certify that Major Wn.^rop Sargent, 
lately an officer in the line of artillery and aid-de-camp to 
Major- General Howe, has served with great reputation in 
the armies of the United States of America; that he entered 
into the service of his country at an early period of the 
war, and, during the continuance of it, displayed a zeal, in- 
tegrity, and ntelligence, which did honor to him as an 
officer and » gentl I an. Given under my hand and s»al, 
this 18th day of Jone, 1785. (Signed) George Washington, 
late Commander-iii-chief, &c. Arc." Major Sargent subse- 
quently received the appointment of governor of the territory 
of Mississippi. 

Page 122. It is herself he sees. 
A letter dated Monterey, October 7th, 1846, describes a 
Mexican woman as having been mortally wounded while 
going to suceor a dying soldier on the field of battle. " I 
think it was an accidental shot that struck her,'* sa^s the 
writer. "Passing the spot, next day, I saw her body still 
lying there, with the bread by her side, and the broken 
gourd with a few drops of water still in it — emblems of 
her errand." 

Page 123. AiMdt't Triumph. 
The narrative from which the main incident of this little 
ballad is drawn appeared, some time since, in a French jour- 
nal, as I learn from a friend, to whose recollection I am 
indebted for the story. He will perceive that in giving it a 



NOTES. 207 

poetical dress, I have materially altered it, and lost, I fear, 
much of the simple pathos which struck me in his oral 
narration. 

Page 147. The Drama's Race. 
This address was originally written for the occasion of a 
complimentary benefit to the manager of the Park Theatre, 
September 27th, 1839. Among the performers who appeared 
that evening were Mr. Power, the celebrated Irish comedian, 
who was shortly afterwards lost in the President, Miss Tree, 
Madame Caradori Allan, Madame Vestris, Mr. Charles Mat- 
thews, Mr. Barry, and Mr. Browne. 

Page 159. The Candid Critic. 
There is something quite comical in the accounts that 
have come down to us of the characteristic traits of the 
elder Dionysius. His ruling ambition was to be esteemed a 
poet ; and his mode of dealing with individuals who re- 
fused to praise his verses was original indeed : his literary 
opponents were in danger of being confined in the quarries, 
as the common prison of Syracuse was called. On two oc- 
casions, he transmitted poems to be recited at the Olympic 
games; but, much to his chagrin, they were dreadfully 
hissed. The Athenians were more indulgent ; and, when the 
news reached him that they had awarded the prize to a 
tragedy from his pen, he was almost beside himself with 

joy- 
Various versions of his quarrel with Philoxenus, the poet, 
are given by ancient historians. As the story is told in the 



2U8 NOTES. 

Iluty.i/.t; r Iaronia of .filian, Dionysius had submitted a drama 
to the poet to revise, and the latter drew his pen through 
the whole of it — an affront which may naturally have 
aroused the indignation of the monarch. But I have pre- 
ferred following the account given by Diodorus, as better 
adapted to dramatic treatment. Fragments of a burlesque 
poem, entitled Jtijvvov, or the Entertainment, preserved by 
Athenseus, are all that remain to us of the writings of 
Philoxenus. 

Page 195. The Lampoon. 
Byron expresses his surprise that poor Keats should have 
allowed his soul to be "snuffed out by an article." But an 
exaggerated estimate of the importance of published abuse 
is among the commonest fallacies. This dramatic sketch 
was written at a time when the community had been re- 
cently shocked by the intelligence of two deaths, one of 
which was self-inflicted, in consequence of scurrilous per- 
sonal attacks from an utterly worthless and discreditable 
print. Let the thin-skinned object of such attacks bear in 
mind, that "no man can be written down except by himself." 



THE END. 



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